


The Once and Future Consortium

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Series: Valmont Universe [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe, Babies, Betrayal, Dark, F/F, F/M, Government Conspiracy, Het, Human Experimentation, Minor Character Death, Morning Sex, Past Relationship(s), Series, Song Lyrics, Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Johnny and Cigarette-Smoking Man working together, Mulder and Scully don't stand a chance. Or do they? Part three in the Valmont series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Once and Future Consortium

**Author's Note:**

> "Why should I blame her that she filled my days  
> With misery, or that she would of late  
> Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,  
> Or hurled the little streets upon the great,  
> Had they but courage equal to desire?  
> What could have made her peaceful with a mind  
> That nobleness made simple as a fire,  
> With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind  
> That is not natural in an age like this,  
> Being high and solitary and most stern?  
> Why, what could she have done, being what she is?  
> Was there another Troy for her to burn?" --W.B. Yeats, "No Second Troy"

 

**Johnny:**

I miss Alex.

I look down at my daughter, poor kid, and wish he were here. The world can get sort of boring when you're lonely.

I imagine he'd tease me about how Danny's going to grow up to be a latex-loving dominatrix because of her father's obvious masochism (staring with his tie thing), and then I'd have to slug his punk ass. We'd laugh until we woke the baby, and then I'd pull my blouse off one-two-three to feed the baby and torture Alex. Then, after Danny was back to sleep, we'd hit my brand-new four poster bed and fuck until we were raw. Poor Alex.

Poor Danielle. I look at the baby, with her dark hair and soft, sour-milk scented skin and I wonder why she even exists. It seems impossible now that just two months ago, less than that, she was a part of my body. Especially considering the fact the weight came off like that. I sneak a peek at my trim figure and smother a smile. This girl is looking good.

But the subject is why she exists. And the truth is I don't know why. On some whim, I decided to have a baby rather than an abortion, some whim I can't bear to decipher, and now there is this small thing in my house, in danger from predators far deadlier than wolves.

I should have known better. From all the things I've glimpsed on my whirlwind tour of the Consortium during January and February and all the information I've read from the company network and regular sources during my time off, I know exactly what these people require to insure loyalty, and I won't do it. One Valmont woman is more than enough to satisfy the Irish bounty. Not even the Morholt could convince me otherwise.

I'm shaken out of my convinced reverie by the slamming of the front door and a loud cry.

"Johanna! Johnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyyy! Where are you?"

Oh, there's my new favorite person on earth, Bethany. She's the nanny slash housekeeper slash unofficial confidante, and she's back from the grocery story with bountiful quantities of ice cream and screwball stories. I really do wish Alex were here, but Beth wouldn't be a bad substitute if she were willing to have sex with me. But the girl has some sort of ethic about not doing the boss, and it doesn't matter, really.

I walk downstairs. Beth is in the kitchen, putting away the six bags of groceries. Back in the day, I could fit the vital parts of my life into less space than my current week's worth of groceries. This domestic shit breeds clutter. Let me tell you that now. And babies, forget it, there's a reason mommies carry big purses.

"Shhh, muchacha. La nina is sleeping," I scold.

"No habla," Beth says with an amiable shrug. "Voila, mistress, I have gone on thy errands and here is thy Chubby Hubby."

Beth is a women's studies scholar taking a year off before grad school. She's extravagantly theatrical just like her sister Kerri. (Kerri was a high-power law school buddy of mine with kids I ended up asking about nannies.) Not to mention Beth is simply adorable: as tall as I am, with this soft, sexy mouth, big ol' eyes and breasts-- all in all, sex on a stick. But I have to settle for the ice cream.

"Gimme that," I say, snatching the carton.

"Okay, okay," she says. "I just wanna get along--" and then she starts singing. She does that. "We were rich once, 'til your highness rolled in--"

"You're so weird," I sigh, rooting around for a spoon. Four months later and the size of this place still makes me uncomfortable. I'd pay for fifty Bethanys-- and she's getting thirty-five grand a year-- if my brand-new penthouse felt cozy, but it's just too big.

"Weird, huh? Well, I was always very weird," she trills musically, snatching the carton away. "You're going back to work on Monday, you said. Are Danny and I coming with? Do I finally get to see the Mafia from the inside?"

I snort. "Yeah, Beth. You'll even get to meet John Gotti. But give me a few days. I'm in a new position."

She sighs. "Yet another sister shunted to the mommy track."

Mmm-hmm. I hide my smile. Beth's the cutest kid; kind of what I figured my sister could be like if she weren't in porno-- but I digress. The future's pretty damn bright around here, no second comings looming large or anything. Well except if you're me and know what I know. My side of the equation is a little different. It has been ever since I said yes.

"Oh, Ms. Hays, Ms. Hays," I laugh. "You and your ideology are always sadly mistaken when it comes to me. Now give me the ice cream."

I walk into the living room and flop onto the coach. April already. Where does the time go? January was yesterday and tomorrow will be the end of the world. And in three or four days, I'll buy an Explorer and attend PTA like a good mother. Well, except for the PTA and Explorer part.

"Why don't you ever explain what you do, if you're not Mafia?" Beth asks, sitting down primly on the armchair. "You're the most mysterious woman I've ever met. You live like you're a very well-bred kept woman, you even have the baby to prove it, but from what I can tell, you're the one in charge. The one guy I ever thought was your sugar daddy you got into a hellacious fight with. You talk about all sorts of government secrets. Either you're James Bond or Pussy Galore, so which is it?"

"Actually, honey," I say, picking up the remote and flipping it to HBO. "I'm Dr. No, and I have to finally start taking over the world come tomorrow."

Beth snorts. "Good for you, honey. Bring down the patriarchy from the inside."

"Bethany Mae, shut up."

"Can do."

She rests her head on a cushion, and shoots sidelong glances at me, trying to figure me out. I try to watch the movie but all I can think of is that I'm finally going to get to play in the big leagues, and here I am, sitting on a couch and watching soft-core. Things are going to change but soon, dammit.

* * *

 

**CSM:**

I've been dreading this day for a while now. The elevator doors slide open and a tall young woman in a sleek navy suit springs out, looking as cool as the cat with the canary and as purposeful as I could have ever dreamed.

"Morning, boss," she says. "Show me to my office, because we have to talk."

And that's that. We have to talk. I take Johnny down the carpeted corridor, avoiding the curious gazes of my co-workers. They've known for four months this day was coming, but the reality of it seems too impossible to bear. Johnny Valmont, the little girl who disappeared right before we finished making our bargain, the young woman Kensington informed us was not going to be bargained away, not after Iseult had sacrificed herself for the child? Johnny Valmont, the cool-eyed beauty queen who has proven herself more than once as an assassin and an eavesdropper? Here? In charge?

"My office will be big enough to bring Danielle in from time to time, I'm certain. And should I get one assistant or two? There's someone I'd like to transfer over from Lancaster's place in New York, Angela, and another woman from Los Angeles, Katherine," she says crisply.

"One assistant will be plenty. The less people who know about the work, the better, and I would prefer you select the person from a list I'll provide you."

"Don't bother. I'm getting Angie," Johnny replies. "Now, is this it?" She stops at precisely the right door, probably because her name is on it. "Do I get a key?"

"Here's your identification. It's all the key you'll need, Johnny," I say, pointing out the card slide.

"Schweet. It's like evil Star Trek," she replies cheerfully, pushing her dark hair back. I get spooked for a moment; all I can see is another dark-haired woman with darker eyes, looking at me angrily.

"You're all idiots..."

I shake myself briefly, and Johnny takes her I.D. away greedily. "So, Jackie, boy, you didn't answer any of my questions."

Johnny opens the door and I follow her inside. She looks at the secretarial cubicle and nods appreciatively, and then walks into her own private space.

"I--"

"Wow," Johnny says, looking around. "This is living. Now you were just about to answer. Let me sit down at my desk and enjoy hearing your answer."

She's a bit too enthusiastic as she scrambles behind the big mahogany desk and sits down in the huge black leather chair. Johnny ordered all the furniture about a month into her maternity leave and I'm surprised there's not a crib somewhere in this office. I take a deep breath.

"Just in case you forgot-- can I bring my daughter here? When can I choose an assistant? And, most importantly--" Johnny pauses. "Tell me what the FUCK is going on in this organization. I figure what it is, is that you and your old big shot homeboys met up with the evil black oil fifty some odd years ago. It controls all those buggy little extraterrestrials so that we can talk turkey. About 1973, y'all played let's make a deal, which led to a big trade, humans for aliens. Genetic engineering is involved in this deal, hybridization and cures and numerous diseases and possessions are involved. And now, the non-infected alien guys who are resisting the black oil have just shown up to make your lives even worse."

I stare at her. Fifty years of maintaining plausible deniability and this bright-eyed beaver has it picture perfect on breadcrumbs. Of course, I should expect nothing less from the second in command of the organization, but it's still startling to hear my life's purpose put so irreverently.

"That's exactly right," I stammer. I earn a disparaging sneer.

"Can I bring my daughter here? That's exactly right. When can I choose an assistant? That's exactly right. What the fuck is going on in this organization? That's exactly right. Jack--" and Johnny shakes her head. "Verbalize for me. Sit in the chair if that'll help."

I take a deep breath. "The answers to your first two questions are fairly simple. No, you cannot bring your child here, and second, as soon as you'd like, as long as I approve of your choice."

"You're a real prince, you know that? I have some rights as a working mother," Johnny snaps. "But screw it, we'll deal with it LATER. You're going to explain the gaps in my mainly correct expose of the Consortium."

"Well, to begin with, the black oil, as you so piquantly put it, Ms. Valmont, prefers to be referred to as Purity. It originally inhabited this planet, and is a collective of viruses that exist within a substance that's identical to diesel oil. Purity emigrated from Earth millions of years ago, carried by what we call the "Grey" aliens. It established a large empire by infecting and controlling its subject races."

"And the Jedi knights apparently didn't stop the Empire this time," she replies flippantly. I glare at her briefly, and she shuts up.

"To continue, when the colony of Purity crashed into Earth in 1908 in Tunguska--" Johnny starts, possibly remembering what happened to the late, unlamented Alex Krycek there-- "They sent out a distress signal in 1943 with the Drop Dead Red. The cavalry, so to speak, came out in 1947, and we had to talk our way out of it until 1972, when we came to our truce."

"That's a long damn talk."

"This species has existed for billions of years. Twenty years is literally nothing to them."

"But not to us," Johnny says sagely. "So I know a lot of the personal history that went on during those years. What's the deal we're playing with?"

"We agreed to trade a number of our families as a pledge of good faith while we got alien biological matter to work with. Our job was to create a hybrid between mankind--"

"Humankind--" she corrects superciliously.

"Humankind-- and a race Purity has already infected-- the Morphers."

"Those green-blooded sons of bitches," she says, and pauses off my blank stare. "Sorry. Just quoting Star Trek. So what you're not mentioning is that while we were playing collaborator, you also made plans to create an anti-viral agent on the side. One that also works as a vaccine so that you didn't have to fight an uphill battle when your new bud realized you were jerking their chain the same way they're jerking yours."

"Very good, Ms. Valmont. I see I made an astute choice in hiring you," I say, pulling a cigarette out of my shirt pocket. I light up and take a long drag.

"Yeah, you did. Hey, no smoking in my office," she says. "I don't like it." I look at her, and extinguish it with my bare fingers. It hurts, but it proves a point. She looks unimpressed. "So what's my role in this whole game?" she asks, leaning back in her chair.

"Part of it involves you making it up as you go along. You've seen what my job entails. I'm a liaison. I negotiate with our friends, as you so politely put it. I also create a smoke screen between the real world and what most of humankind calls postmodernity. I let them have their little illusions for safety's sake."

She nods. "I'm supposed to figure it out, then. Take your vague little comments, some common sense and what I know, and make a job out of it? Hmmph. All right, then, first order of business. I want to make a discreet memo to a list of people, explaining the truth to them. I believe that they could help us with our real business-- stopping Purity from destroying the human race."

I stare at her. "You're out of your mind!"

"No, I don't think so. I think you've got a fucking God complex. I get the need for hush-hush-- I don't think CNN should make this a top story or anything-- but you've played this wrong. This is what you've hidden from Fox Mulder for twenty-five years?" she asks contemptuously, looking straight at me. "What we need to do is make it a quasi-public project, give it a name like, "The Human Disease Resistance Project" and make it a very open secret."

"You don't understand the very real threat--"

"No. I understand that in the 1970s, you couldn't let this get beyond your group. Now you're just become an institution, a dead and decaying thing, and somewhere in that decaying old brain of yours, you know it. That's why I'm here. I'm going to scare you, I'm going to come very very close to making fatal decisions, but you know what?"

I remember to start breathing. "What, Ms. Valmont?"

"I'll make sure it all comes out right. As long as I know what you're really after."

I look at her. "What?"

"Well, if what you really want is the continued existence of the entire human race, I can do my best. If what you really want is the safe continued existence of you, your cronies, and a few selected friends and family as hybrids or whatever, I can do that, too."

I hear the unspoken "but" in that statement. Since when did Johnny grow a conscience? I sneer at her.

"Do what you want, as long as I sign off on it first. But don't expect me to be kind when you fuck up-- and trust me, Johnny, you will."

I stand up to leave. "Jack."

"What?"

"Thanks for the nice office. You'll see a report from me at the end of the day detailing my agenda and my choices for an administrative assistant, as well as a more detailed request for childcare on the job site. I know what happened to my grandmother, Jack, and I will not come home after a long day and find Danielle gone. That's unacceptable."

I don't say anything. She smiles at me. "Have a nice day, Jack."

"Have a good day, Johnny."

Then I walk out of the office, shuddering, fumbling for my cigarette. It takes me a few times to light it, and then again, I'm shaken, not only by the cool professional in the office-- it went better than I could expect with Johnny-- but with the specters that go with her-- and I hear a voice, as crisp as it was the first time.

"Damn you all to hell for this mistake--"

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

My nightmares are the most real thing in my life. Ever since February twenty-ninth and that pleasant little birth announcement with its wonderful personal note, they've been worse than ever. Now I don't actually have to be asleep to have nightmares. I can be wide-awake and screaming.

But this one is the sort that's sheer midnight psychological creation, though it's nearly real. I'm seven years old again and I'm chasing a dog that I know is not my dog. There's a big girl with dark brown hair and darker eyes in a bikini. She's smoking a cigarette and even though she hasn't any breasts to speak of, she looks very grown up. Two other girls, in far more modest swimsuits, but wearing big grins, watch as the big girl strides up to me.

"Heylittleboy," she says quickly. "Do you see that big guy over there?"

She points and I try to see him-- we're all at a picnic, and there are so many big guys-- but I choose one dark shadow that she appears to be pointing at and nod. Then I look up at the big girl, who looks strangely familiar. She gives me a big wet kiss on the lips. The other two girls shriek with laughter.

"Shut up, Molly! You, too, Annie!" she snaps. "You go give him that and say it's from Carly. Go on, do it! If you don't the kiss will give you cooties and you'll have to take a cootie decontamination bath in piss water."

Horrified, I run over to the guy and--

It's her again, rubbing her tummy and crying. I'm in the dining room and she's in the kitchen at my house. There are other women, my mom is with them, and I'm confused.

"I don't know who-- it could be anyone--"

I recognize the shirt I'm wearing; it's funny how the details seem to matter. From the decor and the fashions, I would guess I'm about nine. There's another woman, green-eyed, sighing. She reminds me of something else I can't quite place.

"Anyone in particular that week?" this woman asks with a trace of an exotic accent. Carly-- and it's so strange that I remember her name-- sobs and mentions names. I don't hear them.

My mother laughs. "Iseult--" she says slowly.

"Justine, she's hardly the first who's forgotten herself in a fit of passion," the green-eyed woman says in an accented voice. My mother shifts nervously and then she looks over and stares at me--

"It's my little sweetie girl! It's my Joey Jody Jo!" Carly coos. "Do you want to see, Fox?"

I look at her. "I know you, don't I?" I ask. She nods.

"Sure, we're always hanging out. Kids do that. Remember, Fox, when I had you kiss someone for me? It seems like it was forever ago. But look at her! Isn't she just the cutest-wutest girl? My Joey Jody Jo! Yes you are!"

I stare down at the baby. She spits on me. I wake up shaking and look over at my bleak reality, which really isn't so bleak this early in the day.

Scully is sleeping next to me, her flame-red hair dangerously beautiful against my sheets. She's breathing quietly, and I want to wake her up with a kiss. But I don't. I just look at her and try to remember my childhood. I remember lots of picnics, for some reason, lots of kids running around. Then I remember when all the picnics stopped and there was no one left that we knew.

Carly. Dark hair, dark eyes, five or six years older. Pretty, familiarly pretty. Carly had a baby, someone's baby, why would I remember or care? I saw the baby. And why does it matter? Why do any of my nightmares matter? I'm just a lousy son of a bitch, the son of a conspirator, half a man now anyhow, couldn't even manage to father a baby-- never mind that would have been my worst nightmare--

"My Joey Jody Jo!"

It hits me hard, the shock of recognition. Obviously there's no such thing as coincidence. Joey Jody Jo-- Johanna. Johnny Valmont. All roads lead back to her. My unconscious is obviously a far braver thing than I am. I knew Johnny years before she ruined my sleep for good. I shudder and sink under the covers.

Scully makes an interesting little noise and I know she's waking up. God, I can't imagine where I'd be without her. My love, my partner, the foundation of my sanity. I snuggle against her brazenly.

"Mulder--" she moans in a sleep-soaked whisper. "I'm sleepy."

"Shhh... go to sleep, then."

"Don'wanna."

"What?"

She rolls over on top of me and kisses me rather serious. "I said I don't want to."

"Oh."

"You have a problem with that?"

"Never with you," I reply, kissing her and slipping my hands under my t-shirt, which somehow got back on her body during the night.

"Good deal," she murmurs, smiling down at me as I gently caress her skin under the shirt. She places her palms on my chest firmly and pulls herself into a sitting position, straddling my waist. "Love you."

"Love you, too," I say, wriggling her t-shirt off her attractive frame. God, this is the best part of waking up, the Folgers in my cup can kiss my ass. My hands regretfully slide down from her swaying breasts to her hips, trying to slide her backwards, or up, or wherever I can find my way inside of her.

"What about foreplay?" she asks, giving me a disappointed look.

"We'll be late for work."

"You're evil."

"I do my best."

She whimpers pathetically, and positions herself above my cock, pausing slightly before impaling herself on it. Scully feels wonderful, and I press into her deeply, moving my hands from the curve of her waist down to the flare of her hips and up again.

It feels wonderful, it is wonderful, and she meets my thrusts with such perfect rhythm. I stare up at my lover and everything that's wonderful is in her eyes. I start thrusting into her faster and Scully moans, that wonderful throaty sound and we start moving like crazy, my hands reaching up to push the soft red strands of hair away from her face so I can look at her.

She smiles. It's the best aphrodisiac of all. I move one hand away from her face regretfully and down to her breast, rubbing it tenderly. She whimpers again, but I've been matching her noisemaking for a while now.

"Oh, God, Mulder," Scully says. She starts moving faster and faster and then her body clamps down on mine and starts shuddering. "Oh, God--"

Listening to her and feeling her is enough to bring me off, and I come right after her, pulling Scully toward me as I do. We lay there together for a while, feeling the warm texture of skin against skin, listening to the sound of our breathing get regular again.

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"I knew her before I knew her."

"What?"

I kiss Scully's cheek and run my hand over her back. "Johnny. Did you know I knew her mother? I didn't until last night. I dreamed her."

"Mulder, you have to stop torturing yourself. You have to stop thinking about it," Scully says, slipping down next to me. "And how could you know her mother?"

"We were all friends back on the Vineyard-- I dreamed her, Scully, she was crying--"

Scully kisses me. "You know I love you, no matter what."

She gets off the bed, the sun outlining the contours of her silhouette.

"I need to know what happened, Scully. To make sense of it."

"I understand that," she says, stretching sensuously. "But what good is it going to do you to know that Johnny Valmont's mother was a friend of yours? Will it change anything?" She looks back at me sadly. "Everything I know about what's happened to me has not made it any easier to accept."

Then she walks into the bathroom and closes the door. I listen to the water run but I can't bring myself to get out of bed. I try to remember Carly, or the green-eyed woman, Iseult. Something about Iseult is nagging at my less-than-perfect memory, and I know that it's going to be bad.

I flip on the TV right to CNN. "And in the news, the Harvey-Millholland Corporation, implicated less than two months in a biological warfare scandal, testified today that other corporations are involved in this scandal and that a greater plan is at work, contradicting previous statements. Is this a conspiracy theorist's dream come true? Brent Newman has the report--"

"We did not act alone," says the stammering, slight man I've seen too many times recently. I barely pay attention to his statement; I can get a transcript off the net. I lazily scan the crowd and then stop cold.

"Scully, you have to come out here and see this!" I call.

"What?" Scully calls indistinctly.

"Just come here!"

The door opens reluctantly and Scully peeks out through a cloud of steam. "What?"

"Do mine eyes deceive me, or is that Johnny fucking Valmont sitting right there on my television screen?" I ask.

Scully gapes. "Damn-- she lost the weight fast."

"No kidding," I mutter. I slouch into the sheets sullenly. Nothing is ever going to destroy Johnny Valmont. Apparently murder raps just don't stick when you're slicker than Astro-Glide.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

It's ironic that I got over Johnny Valmont just when Mulder got completely obsessed with her. If I didn't know his obsession was murderous, I would be upset. I'm still not quite sure what to make of this new need to avenge himself on her.

"I don't care if it's difficult! Get a screen cap of her-- and a clear one! And send it to me-- and I'll make it worth your while," Mulder tells Frohike over the phone. It's another fine morning in the Mulder-Scully relationship.

Instead of listening, I survey myself in the mirror critically, smoothing out my blue suit. I'm not doing badly for middle age. I have a purpose; I have questions to keep asking, the faith to ask them, and love, and complexity, and richness. I've suffered, certainly, but who hasn't?

It hurt terribly to see the frilly pink and blue card, and the googly-eyed, red-faced baby with dark hair. It hurt to see the fancy script announcing the birth of "Danielle Corinne Valmont" on February 29th. I won't even go into how Freudian the name Danielle is in context. The ruffles, the entire thing, it was a slap in the face. Hah hah hah, look what I have and you don't!

And then there was the note. "Dear Fox. Don't worry, she's not yours. Cute though, isn't she? Anyway, I don't think it's right you don't know this: she can't be yours. Reliable sources say that it-- I don't know how to say it nicely. You're sterile. Sorry. Oh, and by the way, I stopped that plague. You can say thank you later. My best to Dana. XXXOOO Johnny."

I shiver. That letter made me sick. It was consummately Johnny: carelessly cruel, as though she'd considered trying kindness, failed, and then gone as far as she could the other way. Mulder hangs up and walks over to me.

"Frohike's emailing us a screen cap of Johnny on CNN to show Skinner. I wonder what our dear slut's been up to recently."

"Fixing the Oscars?" I suggest. "Boiling puppies alive for their fur. Pursuing a book deal."

"What book would she write? Wretched sluts were last year's news."

"Mulder, you've obviously forgotten Johnny's sell is the fact she's unabashedly evil. It's eternally appealing. So what else were you doing?"

He looks down sheepishly. "Trying to locate Carly Valmont, Johnny's mother. I need to know if there's something I'm missing--"

I don't know what to tell him. On the one hand, I want to bring Johnny Valmont to justice as I want to bring everyone in the underground government, these faceless men, to justice. On the other hand, I'm worried about this new quest. Mulder can put everything into one overwhelming desire, and it's so easily used against him. The truth, Samantha, me-- trying to destroy Johnny could get him killed.

"It's all right, Mulder. I just want you to remember that Johnny isn't going to just let you take her down without a struggle-- and she's working for them again. She's protected."

"I know that. But there's a point at which you have to fight and keep fighting. And if you give Johnny a little slack, she'll hang you with your own generosity," Mulder replies.

With this cheery thought to buffer our morning commute, we go to work. The email with attached file is waiting on the computer, and Mulder doesn't waste a second printing it out. Ever since the Harvey-Millholland scandal broke, our investigation of Johnny Valmont and the corporation has not only had the Bureau's support, but we were privately praised for having the "foresight" to start an early investigation.

Skinner doesn't look impressed when Mulder slaps the picture on his desk. "What am I looking at, Agent Mulder?"

"Johnny Valmont's out of hiding. Again."

Skinner examines the photograph. "Agent Mulder, you remember that the warrant for Ms. Valmont's arrest has been dropped due to lack of evidence. There's absolutely no reason the Bureau needs to investigate her any further. Even if there is, I cannot in good conscience get involved with it. Like it or not, I have a personal connection to the woman-- and so do you. Back away from it, Mulder. I can't protect you from her."

"And where did you find out that she's protected, sir?"

"I didn't have to find anything out. You know Johnny as well as I do, Mulder. She's obviously made a play and done something right. As a friend, I'm telling you to leave it alone, for your own sake."

"I wonder if you'd say that if you didn't have Danielle to think about, sir."

I glare at Mulder. That's a low blow. Skinner's eyes narrow and he sits down at his desk, fiddling with his tie.

"Thank you, Agent Mulder, for bringing this photograph to my attention. I will take the information under advisement. Now if you'll excuse me, agents, I have a lot of work to take care of today."

We walk out, and once we're safely in the basement, I let Mulder have it but good.

"Are you trying to alienate everyone in the Bureau, Mulder?" I snap. "What were you thinking? Skinner's our ally."

"Skinner's got too much invested to be simply our ally, Scully. He's not just on our side."

I look at him and shake my head. "Dammit, Mulder, he's a decent man who doesn't want to see his daughter suffer. That currently includes keeping her mother alive and well. Like he said, he's too close to it. And so are we. He's right, Mulder."

Mulder looks at me coldly. "Fine. Whatever."

Maybe I should be jealous. I know that with Mulder, any bond of passion is incredibly strong, and hate is a passion as much as love. A shiver passes through my spine when I realize that possibly, very possibly, I could lose Mulder to Johnny. If that's not ironic, I don't know what is.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Ironic is when the person in charge is the last to know anything. I am getting sick and tired of bureaucratic incompetence and masculine secrecy in this racket. It's political bullshit, pure and simple, caused by the attitude of our "board of directors". If our work is so damn important, we should make it clear to our employees, or else we risk this mess.

"We are so fucked," I hear getting off the elevator this morning. See? Yet another crisis in Gotham. I dust off my new Armani suit and march up to the wailer and his cluster of idiot listeners.

"What's wrong today?" I ask. After blanching slightly, the wailing man recovers and regains his composure. Sort of.

"The world's coming to an end."

"James Van Der Beek has finally spawned?"

"Errr-- no. We've got a security leak that could mean dire repercussions to plausible deniability."

I growl and a couple of the people around me grin. This guy has obviously not heard any of Johnny Valmont's Rules. I explain the first one to him.

"Spit it out, Jimbo. I'm busy."

"Marita Covarrubias has somehow escaped from her protective custody. I don't have to explain what that could mean--"

Lord save me from all the loquacious middlemen in this consortium. I really need to put a memo out about this, but I don't have time just now.

"Thank you, Jimbo," I say. "Now where the fuck is Harry Lancaster on this? Or any of you? Is it so impossible for someone to pick up a phone and call me? Is telephoning really beyond your limited skills? Now get to work, dammit."

I throw up my hands dramatically, and storm down the hall into my office. Angie is waiting, looking collected and ready.

"Covarrubias-- what's up with it?" I ask curtly.

"Well, she was UN, got infected and cured of Purity, spent the last year under knives and needles. We're thinking she had an ex-boyfriend she persuaded to get her out. And you of course know she was informing Fox Mulder on Colquitt's orders. My guess is that she'll head his way and turn state's evidence," Angie says.

"That would be of the bad," I say. "Okay, get me Mike Lloyd in Pittsburgh on the line, see if Pacione has even bothered to talk to our people at the CDC and make sure they don't go running out behind her, please. Fax out an eyes-only memo to Lancaster, PR, and whoever the fuck else was in charge of that facility and get this situation coordinated for me. We need minimum publicity on this. Oh, and talk to Kersh at the FBI, tell him to watch Fox Mulder, but stay absolutely still. I don't need Spooky spooking if Marita goes his way."

"Done, Johnny. Not a problem."

"If this goes down well, remind me to give you a raise," I say, closing the door behind me as I walk into the office. I rub my temples pathetically for a moment, and then hit a button to turn on my stereo system.

"Harder, faster-- forever after--" Brian Molko half-whines, half-sings. I take a deep breath, and punch up the risk analysis people. This is just what I wanted from life, really. Excitement, money, power, glamour-- the only thing missing is sex. I've been in a horrendous dry spell ever since January and that visit to my sister's. I really need to get out and prowl-- it's good for my nerves-- but I'm so busy and Beth deserves her days off.

Angie pokes her head in while I'm waiting for Freddie to pick up. "Mike's on line two, Johnny." I nod at her, and wait until I hear Freddie's dorky voice. Then I promptly put him on hold, and go to line two.

"Mike? Hey!" I say cheerfully. "Valmont. Look, my people have a situation and I need it wrapped up quietly. Very quietly. Twice the usual rate. I need the person alive and in good condition, and there is to be absolutely NO PRESS. One word of it and it's your fee and your ass, Mikey. Got it?" I ask. "Thank you. I'll fax you the vital information when I get it. Always good doing business with a true professional."

I click over to Freddie. "Have a dossier and a risk analysis on the Covarrubias situation on my desk and Colquitt's in an hour. No excuses. Thank you."

Click. I start making more phone calls, faxing information. An hour later, the reports are on my desk. I send Mike what he needs. I look over the reports and the data, make the conclusions necessary, and march over to Old Smokey's office.

"Johnny, where have you been all morning?" he asks.

"I've been getting things done," I reply laconically. "You obviously know about the Covarrubias situation. I have people on it. There will be absolutely no publicity. We'll keep her out of the public eye. I need her alive, by the way. She's the test subject I'm using for my outside team of professionals."

"How is that project coming along?" Colquitt asks urbanely.

"Oh, our lawyers and theirs are playing footsie. I give it two months before it gets settled. Anyway, I also came to tell you that I'm going out of town for the next two days, but that I will maintain extensive communication with my office. Angie will know how to get in touch with me at any time."

"You're leaving now? Are you out of your mind? Where are you going?" Colquitt blusters at me. "This is serious!"

"Yes, it is. But I'm not going to personally chase after Marita. It's not really my department. I have trusted associates on the case. Besides, I'm going to be in constant contact with everyone. I made this appointment a month ago and refuse to break it. You know how to talk to Angie. Good day, Jack," I say, swiveling on my heels and walking out.

I don't tell him that I'm going to Martha's Vineyard to talk to his old flame to get information about several things, including a very messy subject-- my paternity. It occurred to me during labor with Danny that I have absolute no idea who my father is. It could very easily be Colquitt, or Bill Mulder. The thought was extraordinarily disturbing. What if the reason the old man warned me away from Mulder was--?

No. Ewww. I don't believe that, and I refuse to believe it. Still, Teena Mulder was there during an important period of history, right in the thick of the neglected "private" side of things. I need to talk to her about my mother, and about my grandmother. Iseult Valmont has been the shadow in my life that refuses to fade and I just have a simple curiosity about her. Who was she? What happened to her? I want to know.

I quickly think about Marita Covarrubias on the way to the car. That brain-dead bimbo, she'll never get anywhere. Certainly she'll never reach Mulder, not with the crack team of people searching for her. I need her alive, so she'll come back alive, end of story. I flip on the car's stereo system and head home at top speeds, humming along to the Rolling Stones--

"Please allow me to introduce myself-- I'm a man of wealth and taste--"

* * *

 

**Teena Mulder:**

It never rains but it pours. The evening after a short visit from the current generations of Valmont women, I find my son on my doorstep, travelworn and cold-eyed. I ignore his rather unsavory appearance and allow him into the house. Fox, as usual, turns to me with a barrage of questions.

"Mom, I need you to remember," he says in that babying, patronizing voice I despise. "Did you know a woman named Iseult Valmont, a long time ago?"

"I knew her very well, as a matter of fact," I say. "She was your friend Johanna's grandmother. As I told Johanna, Iseult was a beautiful, brilliant woman, a Russian emigre. Or at least that's what she claimed. Unfortunately for us, Iseult's daughter was rather loose and stupid and completely without any sense of decency. But why are you interested in Iseult Valmont?"

Fox looks at me with solemn eyes. "Johnny was here?" he asks.

"Yes, she was. She left just this morning along with her baby and the nanny. It was an interesting visit. Johanna reminds me very much of her grandmother."

Fox's face looks worn and frantic at the edges. "What did she tell you? Did she say anything?" he asks stupidly. I hide my smile.

"Nothing damning, Fox," I say calmly. "She mentioned that you've become romantically involved with a lovely woman and that you've suffered a setback or two recently."

He starts breathing again. It's obvious there's much more antagonism between Fox and Johanna than they've admitted to me; from his attitude and reactions, I think they were lovers at one time. Not any more, thank God. But Fox's current lover is a small, delicate beauty, the visual opposite of Johanna and her darker good looks. How could he be interested in them both? I need to go to the market, I realize, for dinner. Oh, it doesn't matter. While I'm thinking, Fox starts speaking again.

"Mom, did Johnny tell you where she went?"

"Not really-- I assume New York, that's where she mentioned her home is. But Fox, how is-- Dana? Your partner, Miss Scully, I believe that's her name? You know we've never been properly introduced. How are you? I never hear a word from you, you know."

"Scully is great," he says flatly. "I'm happy. I'm fine. Mom, what happened to Iseult?"

I sigh involuntarily. "She disappeared one night, Fox." The next question is obvious.

"Like Samantha?"

"For the exact same reason. But Iseult knew what was coming. Why do you think Johanna's still here? Iseult knew. She sent her daughter to the ends of the earth to save both of them--"

Johanna's face was a shock to me at first; dark hair, bright eyes, tall and slender body-- I saw my daughter in her face. The image was lent, I suppose. She could have been Samantha, I thought when I saw her smile. But my daughter, my Samantha, is more distant than stars and nearer than the eye. I can't hold on to her. Samantha is a dream to murder sleep. Johanna glitters as the child who fled to Egypt and rose up after Herod died. I shiver. Fox bites his lip and looks at me.

"You know that Johanna works for them. The people who took Samantha."

"I do," I reply steadily. "Fox, why are you here? What do you need from me?"

"I need to know about Johnny's family-- I want to understand her, so I can stop her, bring her to justice--"

My poor boy. He sounds so desperate, so driven, and to what? This man is my son, my only child left. I look at him and see a stranger. How did I get so estranged from my only son? We've forgotten each other in our piecemeal attempts to drive away the demons and banish the pain. How do you survive when you wake up one morning and the entire world you've known has vanished to pay a debt you never charged?

"Let me get you something to eat, Fox," I say decisively, surprising myself. "I'll tell you all you need to know about the Valmont family. If you think that bringing Johanna down will do something to avenge what's been done, then I want you to do it. I'll help you."

His eyes lift in surprise. But I'm as serious as I can be. My daughter and my world shattered in a maze of secrets and lies over twenty-five years ago, and I'll do anything I can to strike back. That young woman, Johanna Valmont, if she's the only way to stop things, then be damned to her and her godforsaken family. I am tired of being glad to be a victim.

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

Scully's face is too much to handle when I walk in the door. I run past her to the bathroom and throw up, just empty my guts until I can't stand up. Scully pounds on the door, calling in indistinct tones. I can't think. None of this can be possible any more. I've held myself together on the flight back to DC and the godawful cab ride here, but I can't take another second of pretending that I'm all right.

Morgause and Arthur. Witch and victim. Brother and sister. I have to stop thinking about it in metaphorical terms. It's not true. I know it's not true. Mom said Johnny was certain it wasn't true, that she'd done DNA tests the moment she'd even considered-- I throw up again. Even the possibility is enough to horrify me. Images fly through my head, stories and lies and truths that I've wanted for so long and now I wish I didn't know. I wish that I'd never wanted to know.

"Mulder, let me in!" Scully cries from behind the door. "Mulder, what on earth is going on?"

I take a deep breath and open the door, wiping my forehead. Scully stares at me with absolute fright. "I'm all right, Scully."

"What happened? Are you sick?" she asks.

"I just got some unpleasant news," I murmur. I swallow nervously. "Scully, can I lay down?"

Scully's face is tender with concern. "Of course, Mulder, come here-- God, you've got a chill. What happened? What kind of news?" she asks as she staggers under my weight. I can't speak as I stumble toward the comfort of the bed. I lay down and try to focus a minute. My father might have had an affair with Johnny's mother. Smoking Man probably had an affair with her, as well as my mother. Everyone, it seems, had an affair with the woman-- not even the woman. The child. Group child abuse. I wish that I could think again. I wish I could stop having nightmares during the day.

"They abducted Samantha as a part of a ransom. A large group ransom, a payoff to whatever they made a deal with," I whisper. "Iseult Valmont--Johnny's grandmother-- knew about it. My mom isn't sure if she was just listening where my mother wasn't or if maybe Iseult was part of the group and gave herself up in exchange for Johnny and her mother."

"Your mother knew that the whole time?" Scully asks.

"No," I say. "Johnny told her the whole story, and it connected with the details Mom remembers. But Johnny didn't know how Iseult disappeared. Between Johnny and my mom, they came up with a few theories, though. I added a few theories myself."

"Is that what upsets you so much?" Scully asks. "Is it hearing about Samantha like that?"

I pull myself together and shake my head. "That floored me, I have to admit. But it was hearing that Johnny's mother was the Lolita of Martha's Vineyard that made me sick to my stomach. The girl was fifteen or sixteen years old, Scully, and men twice her age...." I shudder. "Even possibly my father--"

Scully pales. "Oh, Mulder--"

"Well, apparently the minute the thought occurred to Ms. Valmont, she went and had it checked out."

"And?"

"No. Thank God for small mercies," I say. "It was also disturbing to hear my mother so angry. She told me everything about our lives that she could manage and that was intense."

Scully nods. I'm sure she's extremely curious (certainly I would be), but she stays tactfully quiet, avoiding some of the interesting questions, like did my mother have that affair with Smoking Man? Did my father betray his country? Why Samantha and not me?

"Did you find out where Johnny is?" she finally asks, studiously examining her fingertips.

"New York City."

"That narrows it down," Scully says dryly. "Mulder, just stay there. I'm going to make you some soup. I swear you must have food poisoning, too. You look awful--"

"Thanks so much, Scully."

"I'm just telling you the truth," she says as she leaves the room. The doorbell rings.

"I'm coming!" Scully calls, and a red-headed streak crosses my field of vision. I listen as she opens the door, and get antsy to hear only silence.

"Scully?" I ask, craning my neck to try and get a better angle.

"Mulder, if you could come out here, would you?" Scully asks in a tense voice. Groaning, I pull myself to my feet and lurch toward the door.

"Mulder," someone else says. I catch myself. I know that voice. Scully is holding up another invalid, desperately trying to close the door behind her. I do the best I can to keep from falling down in surprise, and then I awkwardly try to take Marita off Scully's hands. I don't do too well. Scully manages to get the door closed, and we land on the couch by a miracle or some other act of God.

"Marita," I say heavily. I shiver at the sight of her, the bloody and smarting eyes, the ghastly pale face, the listless attitude of her body. She barely looks human any more. I glance at Scully, who looks aghast and sad.

"Mr. Mulder," the wraith-like woman gasps. "I have a story to tell you. It's very important that you listen to me."

"What happened to you?" I ask. Marita laughs, (at least, I assume that rattle is a laugh), and licks her dry, papery lips. I feel a chill sneak down my spine.

"I don't think there's enough time to explain everything that's happened to me. You see, Mr. Mulder, I'm going to die. Of that I have no doubt. Either they'll find me-- or--" and she holds up her hands bitterly-- "Everyone dies. Some of us are closer than others."

She stares at me with her ruined eyes and laughs again. "You have to help me."

Scully's look is anguished as it meets mine. We both nod. "Of course," I say. "But tell me what happened Marita, I need to know--"

Marita nods slowly. "It started over two years ago--"

* * *

 

**Marita:**

Neither of them understands what I've gone through to get here or what I need them to do. Scully looks troubled. She knows, I think, better than Mulder ever could, what it feels like to be walking hand in hand with death but for that death, that most private and sacred human thing, to be exploited and used, etherized and exposed on an operating table. She knows, and she's still afraid of me.

I have to tell them. I have to tell someone. If I could heave a ram's shoulder across a table to protest to God, I would, but I don't have the strength. Whoever I was before died on an operating table in a lab so underground that even the rats could never find it. I am simply memories wrapped in a fragile shell. I am merely speaking for the dead.

"The oil, the Purity, you've seen it. You know it's not from this planet."

Scully looks skeptical. "Please, Agent Scully. I know your views, but for now, accept this explanation as a temporary foundation."

I cough; I've been coughing ever since I started breathing the air around here again. Real air, full of pollen and bacteria and life, not the sterilized, barren air of the laboratory, has proven fatal. I had wished for air, and now it makes me cough. I am no longer human, I think. Not fully human, in any case.

"The oil infected me," I say. "I had brought the boy that Alex Krycek had kidnapped, Dmitri, with me. And he had the virus. I caught it from him. God only knows what happened to Alex."

They look stunned. "He's dead, Marita," Mulder says gently. "A lover killed him. Quite brutally, as a matter of fact."

I hide my surprise. Krycek told me he never had lovers, just short affairs. And those affairs were usually with men. "He had a lover? Who was the man?"

"Her name was Johnny Valmont-- do you know her?" Scully asks. I blink. Curiouser and curiouser.

"I've heard of her. She's a street assassin, the granddaughter of a man you know well. I've heard she's good at her work and very attractive. And she killed Alex Krycek? Strange--"

They don't understand what I am now. They don't understand what I'm going to tell them, but I have to try. Otherwise, why did I live? Why did evolution or God bother? I shiver.

"So what did happen, after you were infected with the virus?"

"I lost time," I say. "I don't remember a thing. When I woke up, I was on a cold metal table, and everything hurt. I don't know what happened before. I was staring up and I thought maybe I was dead and that I was in hell. I think maybe I would have preferred hell."

I don't have the words to explain it. The feeling of light rushing back in, the sharp, throbbing ache that filled every muscle, the heady, piercing dizziness that filled every movement and thought-- I could never imagine it if I hadn't experienced it. I start coughing again, one of those terrible fits I get in which I cough and cough and then my throat closes and I can't breathe.

"Are you all right, Marita?" Mulder asked.

"I'm dying. Otherwise, I'm well enough. But you understand the important thing is that I woke up and that I was myself. I was not under the influence of Purity; I was not metamorphosed into some other creature. I was alive and I was human-- mostly, anyway."

"What does that mean?" Scully asks, fear sparkling in her beautiful eyes. I, too, was beautiful. I would have looked as ill as she does if confronted by a dying body. "How did you live?"

"They found a vaccine. No, not precisely a vaccine, that's the problem. They found a cure, but it took too long," I say, the breath rattling in my lungs and my head swimming. "Ninety-six hours after you're infected by Purity, it changes you forever. The DNA changes are permanent, whether you breed or metamorphose or die. They have finally perfected it--"

Mulder looks at me. He knew. I can tell he knew. "Marita--"

"How did you know?" I ask. Scully looks down and the slowly melting neurons in my head make a connection. "But when did you get infected? I don't mean with the green viral agent, when did you get infected by Purity?"

"The summer after you disappeared," she says. "I was infected. I got the same cure as you did."

"Then you have the same thing in your blood I do!" I say, excited. "There's more evidence! We can bring them to their knees! That's why I came, because this thing exists in my DNA, because the cure exists in my body, because I know about the organization and can give you all the information you need!"

They stare at me dully. I cough distractedly and try to laugh. I knew I had to come here. I can make a difference, perhaps before I die--

"Marita, what are you saying?" Mulder asks. I shake my head frantically.

"Don't be naive. You can prove this virus doesn't originate here now, you can use my testimony and my body as evidence that all of your claims of alien existence and a vast conspiracy exist. They exist! I'll tell anyone that lets me tell them! But we have to move fast, or they'll find me and--"

I start coughing violently again, shivering suddenly in a moment of cold.

I can't stop coughing. I can't breathe. It's too cold. Mulder stares at me as though I've grown a second head. Scully starts moving around, asking me questions that I can't quite hear.

"I can't breathe," I whisper between gasps. "I'm cold."

"Mulder, call 911, tell them we've got a patient with an inflamed trachea having extreme trouble breathing. Problem could be allergic or asthmatic, and we're trying to keep her breathing."

"Don't call," I plead as Mulder gets off the couch-- he's not looking much better than I am, really-- and Scully covers me with a blanket. "If I die today--"

"Don't die," Scully says. "If you're telling the truth, you need to live, Marita. Come on, sit up, keep coughing, try to breathe."

Try to breathe? Would I try not to breathe? This decision isn't mine-- I have lived my whole life-- my head hurts and my throat aches from all the coughing. I try to breathe. Scully grabs a glass of water, but I can't drink it. I think I should stop coughing. I stop, but I just gasp and choke. Scully looks frightened.

"Scully, they're on their way!"

"Good," she says, bending over me. "I might have to do a tracheotomy-- I don't want to-- but if it'll save her--"

I am still listening, dammit. I am still alive, as anyone who listens to me choke and gasp noisily while fluttering my arms and trying to catch one good breath of oxygen could tell. I am not stupid, just hideous and dying and pale. I stare, water pouring from my eyes, at Dana Scully. If I could just get one breath, God, just one breath, I could do so much! She runs to the kitchen. She's going to try.

But I think I hear the writing on the wall. I see the knock at the door. I know what's going to happen next. I sputter loudly, refusing to go quietly into that good night. No, God, no! Look at what you've let happen! I won't just accept this end to pain. I want the pain. I want to live. I have more to say, I have more to say-- don't let me die, please!

I sputter and choke and cough. I convulse in a nasty, desperate effort, a futile effort. Because I want to live, but I've got a madman for a master, and there's just. no. chance.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

Marita dies as I'm grabbing a scalpel to save her life. She coughs and coughs and then she just goes limp like a rag doll. I run over to the couch, take a pulse, and try to save her life. But by the time the paramedics arrive, there's no hope.

Mulder circles like a damn vulture as I desperately try to bring Marita out of it. "Scully, we have to save her life-- think about what this could mean--"

I understand exactly what it means, but the woman is dead. I can't resurrect the dead, try as I might. Marita's face is curiously peaceful as we try to revive her. I almost envy her.

"Scully, if we can't bring her back, we've got to keep her body out of unfriendly hands. I want you to do an autopsy, run her through every damn lab in the country if we have to, but this is the evidence we've always needed. And Marita wanted us to do this; to run tests, to make it news, Scully, big news. They only fear one thing: exposure--"

"Mulder, the woman is dead. I know what we've got to do, but could you wait until she's been pronounced before deciding to use her body to crucify the bastards?" I ask testily. He's right. I am more than a little aware of how right he is.

"We don't have time for niceties, Scully. Or don't you remember the last time paramedics showed up here? They decided Antarctica would be the best place for you to recover from that bee sting. I want to make sure this body doesn't leave our sight until we've made sure it won't go astray."

This body was telling us things less than ten minutes ago. I shiver, and keep trying until the paramedics come in. The world becomes fragmented as Mulder starts arguing with the paramedics and we pull out badges and cell phones. The dead woman lies there, holding her secrets with an inscrutable smile on her face.

When Skinner finds us at the hospital, hovering around the body like particularly rabid ambulance-chasing lawyers, he doesn't look happy. He doesn't look angry, either. He just looks tired.

"What are you two doing now?" he asks. "I just got a call that you two are requesting that a body be held in FBI protective custody."

"Sir, Marita Covarrubias is a carrier of an alien retrovirus. She's proof of what we've been searching for," Mulder says. His face is burning with an intensity I haven't seen in years. It's almost frightening how little it takes to set Mulder off.

"Agent Scully?" Skinner asks, looking at me for some sort of confirmation.

"She claimed to be carrying a virus not of terrestrial origin. Before we could interrogate her further, she died."

Skinner looks surprised. "She just dropped dead?"

"She stopped breathing. I think her throat swelled shut," I reply. "We tried to resuscitate her with no luck."

"But what it comes down to," Mulder interrupts, "Is that we have her. And we can't let this opportunity get away from us. There have been too many opportunities in the past in which the evidence has simply disappeared. Not this time."

I can't help but worry a little. Mulder wants to save the world, but he'll do it over Marita's dead body-- and eventually Johnny's. Will it be enough to hold the world up? I gaze back into the morgue, where Marita's face has been veiled for now. Consider Marita, who was once as handsome and alive as us. The poor woman. All she wanted to do was to give us a message, and now Mulder's made her his newest banner.

"And Agent Scully?" Skinner asks. "What do you think about this?"

I don't know. What can I know? Marita knew, and she's dead. But there's safety in the expected-- and so--

I bravely go for the obvious. "I think it warrants further investigation--"

How long can I play the middle against two sides?

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

"And in the news today, the FBI is holding a body it claims to be contaminated with an unidentifiable virus of unexpected origin," NPR yaks at me. I nearly drive into oncoming traffic in irritation. So many people are going to find my foot so far up their ass for this fuck-up.

My cell phone rings. My cell phone has been ringing off the hook for a while now. It's funny how everyone remembers me when things go to hell. I pick it up and growl into the receiver. "Valmont here."

"Johnny, it's Beth. Are you bringing home diapers? We're almost out."

"Beth, I am way fucking busy. Buy some online and have them shipped to the house. By the way, are there any reporters outside the apartment? If any show up, you have no comment and call me."

"Reporters? What the hell is going on?" Beth asks, amused. "Did you kill the wrong person? Hee hee."

If she only knew. "Nothing important dear," I sigh. "Just don't go out, and especially don't go out with the baby. Oh, and don't let anyone in except for me, okay?"

"But-- the diapers-- oookay--" Beth says. "I hope your day goes a little better."

She hangs up and I hit the horn long and hard just to make a point. I hate the world right now. And I really, really need to get laid. Violence might be an acceptable substitute for now. So I dial up Mike. I get his secretary. She sounds scared off her ass, as well she should. I punctuate our conversations with lots of profanity and an open threat.

"Tell your boss that if this doesn't get fixed, it's not just his ass. It's yours, and your little dog's, too."

This day has been horrific. Marita Covarrubias not only made it to Washington DC, she made it to Mulder's apartment, where she told our heroes SOMETHING and then promptly died on all of us, the bitch ho. And then Mulder, being, well, pissed off and actually intelligent for once, held the body for investigation. Lots of badges, lots of manly assertion, lots of talk that he was going to use this body to prove everything. I'd love to see him try, if it weren't the bona fide chance of a lifetime.

And the phone rings again! My bill is going to be absolutely unspeakable next month. Wearily, I pick up. "Valmont."

"Johanna."

Oh, look who finally got around to calling me. It's the boss. It's the man who's probably got a silver bullet with my name on it at HQ. I am just thrilled to hear his voice right now.

"Sir."

"Having a bit of difficulty, I noticed."

"Things got fucked up, sir," I reply honestly. "How are we supposed to get that body away from Mulder?"

"He's not really that good at keeping evidence, Johanna."

"Well," I sigh. "With our luck running as it has been-- and that's been BAD-- Mulder's been playing it very smart. I talked to four or five associates in DC and they've got 24/7 security on the body. Mulder or Scully has been there physically twenty hours a day since they sent the body to the morgue. And there are reporters everywhere. I'm trying to get the body away from them, but it's not going too well. For one, the DoD and the CDC refuse to play ball. You wouldn't be behind that, sir, would you?"

"No," Colquitt replies smoothly. "So what have you been thinking of doing if you can't retrieve the body?"

"Drastic measures. The sort of thing you don't discuss over a cell phone."

"That's not an option."

"The hell it's not."

"Do it and you risk making one man's quest into a crusade. Especially now."

"Bullshit," I hiss. "We might have to do it to stop this. If you'd just popped him earlier, or explained this all to him, maybe I wouldn't have to deal with him now."

"Don't kill him, Johnny."

"I'll do my best," I say. It's not as though I particularly want Mulder dead-- in fact, I think it would be unfortunate and unpleasant to kill him. But I have very few options at this point, or at least, that's how it feels. I need a moment to catch my breath, breathe, and think. And I can't do it in the traffic, with diapers to buy, superiors to report to, and murderous thoughts running around in my mind. I hit the horn. Midtown traffic is NOT helping. Oh, to hell with it. No, I don't have the time to go out or escape, but I don't have time not to, either

Lovely soundtrack I get to my irritated musings, too. Fucking stupid pop music. "Where were they going without ever knowing the way--"

"Okay," I say to myself, spinning the wheel and heading for my favorite little club on nights like this. "Instead of saving the world, I'm going to a fetish show. I might even pick up something skanky. Why don't I feel guilty?"

The radio provides no answers. "They'll never get lonely, they'll never get old and grey-- I can see their shadows wandering off somewhere-- they won't make it home but they really don't care-- they wanted the highway, they're happier--"

I am so not dressed for clubbing. Not Goth, not rave, not much besides the upwardly mobile piano bar, and yeah, I'm so into that. Bleh. Maybe they'll recognize me and let me in, despite the Jill Stuart. I just need a few minutes to catch my breath--

"Hey, Johnny," I hear as I wander in. "Haven't seen you here in eternity. What happened?"

"I had a baby," I reply. "Get me an amaretto sour, Christiane and don't spare the booze."

Sprawled on a couch, only half-heartedly watching the S&M, I let the music numb me and try to think. I've got a dead body in DC that needs retrieval. I've got a lot of honest security against me, not to mention two people who will fight me to the death over it. If I kill the people, media attention will abound. However, I let this happen, and my associates, the black oil, will realize we've been fucking them for fifty years and boom, the human race is kaput.

A tall, dark haired man sits down next to me on the shabby, Gothchic couch and starts running his hand up my thigh. I push his hand away. He gets up and walks away, looking at me angrily. The dominatrix wounds another willing victim in leather as the music howls out, "Stuck in the mainstream pseudo dude-- I was only laughing, hah I was laughing-- Christian Zombie Vampires-- I am the father, the father of nothing --" and an idea starts to brew in my head.

Talk is cheap. Why not talk? Reason might work on Mulder and Scully. Or if not reason, threats. What I'm going to do is give my friends a chance. Transfer the body to me and drop the case, or else. But not quite so abruptly. Explain why the truth can't be out there, because the big bad wolf is up there waiting for a chance to snack on the unwitting Red Riding Hoods below.

After all, someone has to be the hunter. And if that someone happens to be me-- well?

* * *

 

**CSM:**

For all the time I've wasted on regret, I could have built a corporate empire. I could own a movie studio. I could-- have more regrets. I take a long drag off my cigarette and look at Teena Mulder. She looks back coldly. I've wasted more time on that face than any other.

"It's been a long, long time," I say respectfully. "You're looking well."

"Thank you," she says in a voice degrees below freezing. "I didn't come for small talk."

I nod slowly. "No, no, of course not. I was simply unaware you had my address," I say softly. "Why did you come, Teena?"

"Johanna Valmont is why," she replies. "Johanna and Fox."

"Those two. They're going to destroy fifty years of work between them," I say. "I think I'm almost glad. The world deserves those two and their madness."

"He's going to kill her if he can," Teena says. "I don't know if I approve of it or not."

"Well, I think the answer is obvious," I say, leaning back. "Why would you be here if you approved? I thought we didn't have anything to say to each other."

She looks at me icily and sits down, sipping at her iced tea carefully. "We don't."

"Then why are you speaking to me, Justine?" I ask, using her long-forgotten first name. The only person who ever used it was Iseult Valmont, I remember indistinctly. "Unless there's some long forgotten nostalgia for each other--"

"Don't flatter yourself," Teena says, with a little of the old snap. "Fox is willing to expose you and your work and even his father to destroy that young woman. I'm glad-- but I also think--"

"He'll fail," I reply, tapping a little ash off the end of the cigarette. "And you want to make sure he doesn't die."

"Is she really that good? Is she the greatest bastard of us all?

I nod. Teena snorts.

"That is rather astonishing, isn't it?" she asks. "That after all that exclusion and secrecy you maintained, the illegitimate granddaughter of one of your associates will be the one to succeed where you've only stalled and stolen."

"Not really. She'll save the world and then she'll make it her own private playground. I find that as disturbing as the alternative," I say. "I thought once Mulder would be the one to do it. But he's--"

"He's hurt. You destroyed his world to fulfill a blood ransom," Teena snaps. "You did this. You and this mysterious work, you stole my husband and then you came for me. Then you took Samantha and left me nothing. You claimed to love me. But in the end, you only loved this work. She was our daughter, but that didn't matter to you. Having a male-- even one who wasn't your son-- around to carry on your work mattered. Now Iseult Valmont is laughing somewhere because you sacrificed so much and who'll be the one they remember? Not you. No. They'll remember Johanna Valmont. A woman."

I take a drink of whiskey. "I never wanted to be remembered. I only wanted--"

She looks at me with steely eyes. "What?" she asks, daring me to reply. I can't. I can't regret what I did. I won't.

"Does it matter? In my work, there's no room for desires. When Johanna Valmont gives up her desires--"

Teena laughs. "What does she desire?"

"You'd be surprised. All Johnny wants, besides power, is the woman who works with your son. She's madly in love with the girl. It's rather strange."

"You mean she's that way?" Teena asks quizzically.

"No. Not really. She just fell head over heels in love. It's almost touching, Teena. Valmont's ready to kill your son, but she won't, because Agent Scully loves him. It's ironic-- I once felt that way, too--"

Teena stands up elegantly. "It was a long time ago. And I've chosen to forget it. Thank you for the refreshments and the talk. If you can stop this--"

I stand up, and for a minute I wish I'd given up the world for her. "I'll try," I say. "I miss you."

She pauses a moment, then walks to the door. "Good. You deserve that."

The sound of the door slamming is the sound of a long-healed wound reopening. I sit back down and turn on the television. When the phone rings, I pick it up half-heartedly. There's news-- Johnny's decided to talk to Mulder and Scully. The informant on the phone sounds horrified. I'm not surprised about her course of action. She'll regret it, but regret comes with the work.

Regret, who has time for regret? I've never met a single person who could waste a minute, but time gets stolen by all sorts of frivolous acts and sometimes what we can least afford is what we most deserve.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Tea is something straight out of my grandfather's world. I rarely take it, but when I do, I prefer it with ceremony. And the Waldorf-Astoria has such exquisite Tiffany tea sets. Beth, at the very least, is impressed.

"It's so posh," she mutters over and over. "Poshy poshy."

Danielle is not so impressed, but she likes the cotton balls Beth uses to clean off her makeup, so she doesn't count. If we're not careful, she stuffs them in her mouth. Tiffany china is something she'll appreciate later, when her mommy nicks enough of it from the nicer hotels.

The phone rings. I grab it. "Hello?"

"Miss Valmont, your guests are here."

"Thank you. Send them in."

Damn, I love being rich and elegant. People are so nice and I can finally afford couture. And once you're rich, people send you so much free shit, even though you can afford to pay their outrageous prices. Twenty bucks for one MAC eyeshadow indeed...

"Good afternoon, Agent Scully. Good afternoon, Agent Mulder. Would you care for some tea?" I ask as the two wander in. They glare at me. Such pretty faces to wear such ugly expressions. Bethany looks at the pair curiously from her seat in the corner. Danielle, thankfully, is sleeping.

"You--" Scully whispers. "You--"

"Oh, come on, Dana honey," I say lightly. "What other informant would have a stateroom in the Waldorf-Astoria? It's a little expensive, wouldn't you say?"

"You've got a hell of a lot of nerve," Mulder blusters, heading straight for me. I hold up a hand, and really enjoy it when he stops cold. After years and years of playing the leatherette badass, I've discovered the joys of non-violent domination.

"Excuse me, Agent Mulder, but there is a child in the room, and I have called this meeting for an extremely important reason." Bethany perks up. "But first, I have to send the baby back to bed. Would you like to see her?"

Scully stiffens angrily. Mulder looks like the spine has been torn right out of him. I look at both of them with amused superiority. "All right, Bethany, go back to the room."

"Okay, okay, I'm not stupid," she says, pouting big-time. "Don't get poshy with me, bitch, I know where you keep your makeup."

She cradles the baby and walks out, giving me another dirty look. Scully, staring after them, sits down in the chair unthinkingly. Mulder gives me a smug, superior look.

"It's so hard to find good help these days, right?" he asks

"Actually, Beth's fantastic. She keeps my ego from crushing the Hamptons. So, you two don't like children. I suppose you won't take tea, either It's a pity-- these scones are delicious. And the strawberries are just ripe enough--"

I pick one up and take a very suggestive bite. Scully blanches. Mulder just fixes his gaze on me and continues to piss me off. I finish the strawberry, enjoying Scully's nauseated fascination.

"Why did you ask us here?" Scully finally asks in a weak voice.

"Oh, come on. You have to have a clue about that."

Mulder smiles. Oh, it's so goddamn lame when your competitors try to be you and fail. It's even worse when they're only half-successful, like Mulder at this point. All of my trademarks look so drama queen on his sorry ass. I roll my eyes at him.

"We have something you need?" he asks quietly, barely hiding his glee. Oh, Lord, kill me now, or I'll strangle him over the Tiffany.

"Gee, no. I was just going to ask if you'd be Danielle's godparents," I reply. "Yes, Mulder. Give me back the body, you son of a bitch."

"You never had it!" he squawks.

"Don't get technical on me, mister. I knew your sexual fetishes before you had sexual fetishes. And you know you're jeopardizing international security with this little pissing contest. If you hate me so much, fine, we can brawl some other time. But this is different, Mulder."

Mulder snorts. "You've been hiding the truth from the American public for over fifty years. You've manipulated the world without our knowledge or consent."

"Do I look fifty?" I snap. "Dammit, Mulder, if whatever turned Marita into Ms. Dead Heroin Chic 2000 finds out what we've been doing, you're going to be enjoying the comforts of a post-apocalyptic world very very soon. Boom, no warning, no funky viral moments, boom. Death. End of the world as we know it, we will not feel fine, Lenny Bruce will be afraid."

"So you're admitting you're conspiring against the people with these extraterrestrial biological entities?"

"I'm admitting that if I don't get that body, bad things are going to happen, starting with you," I reply. "It's going to be on your head if we end up really big Easy-Bake ovens for pissed off lizard aliens, not mine! I am trying to stop colonization here."

Scully pinches the bridge of her nose wearily. "Do you both have to scream so loudly?" she asks.

"Sorry," we apologize together. Scully nods. I turn back to Mulder.

"Listen to me, Mulder, because I hate repeating myself," I say slowly. "You know that Marita's body is valuable. I need it back. If you don't transfer it to my men at the CDC by the end of the week and withdraw your investigation, dire consequences will result. That's not an opinion, that is a fact. You have a choice here, Mr. Mulder."

"What about me?" Scully asks from the chair. "What if Mulder wants to give up the body but I don't?"

Crap. I've fallen prey to Consortium-thinking. I turn to her. "I'm very sorry, Scully. What is your opinion about the situation?"

"I don't trust you. I wouldn't hand the body over to you if God himself came down and told me to," Scully growls at me.

"Dammit, Scully, this is serious. Regardless of our personal problems here, all three of us have the same goals. We don't want to see the world end. Let's put aside our differences and let me do my job."

Mulder shakes his head. "You just don't get it, do you? You're on the wrong side, Johnny. You're not trying to save the world from an extraterrestrial menace! You're trying to save your own ass! Everything you have done has been for selfish purposes, a grand conspiracy to conceal the truth and further a malevolent agenda on behalf of evil men."

"Whatever," I sigh. "You two know me, don't you? I like comforts. Haute couture, fine cuisine, lots of sex, lots of power, lots of toys. Why on earth would I further any agenda that would lead to that world ending?"

They stare at me blankly. I look at Scully and feel the old familiar mix of desire and love flow through my stomach. I even let myself indulge in the two-second fantasy of a family and a future. But I forget it in my next sip of tea-- Darjeeling, good stuff. She looks so appealing, her lower lip moist and dropped slightly.

"You have until the end of the week to sign the body over to Dr. Hans Meidler with the CDC. Or things will change for the worse," I say. "If you won't stay for tea, that's all."

"You'll never see that body. I'm going to use this against you, Johnny," Mulder growls, helping Scully out of her chair. "You've admitted too much."

"Mulder, please," Scully says. "Let's just go now."

"Go and run along now, Mulder, yes," I say, waving him away. "But remember that I tried to reason with you. I think some of my associates have been foolish in the past in the way they've used you. I'm willing to help you, but you won't let me. Remember that."

Mulder does answer, but he practically jerks Scully out of the room and storms away. I nod slowly and take another long sip of tea. Amateur. That's no way to make an exit.

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

"We've got her, Scully, we've got her up against the wall," I say cheerfully as we drive toward JFK in stop and go traffic. Scully nods distractedly. "Do you know what that means?"

"We'll have the truth?" she asks sardonically. "Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"What if Johnny meant what she said?" she asks nervously. I look at her curiously. I speed up to a bracing forty miles per hour.

"About what?"

Scully pauses a moment and bites her lip. "About all of it. About killing us-- and you can't say she didn't threaten us with that. And more than that, what if she's telling us the truth about the security and the-- everything."

I can't believe this. Scully of all people should know how well Johnny lies when she wants something, and more than anything, Johnny doesn't want us exposing her conspiracy. Why on earth would Scully defend her now? It doesn't make sense, unless-- but I won't go down that path. It's paranoid.

"Scully," I say. "We can't trust her. Not now, when we're holding the truth in the palm of our hand. Johnny's on the run, and she'll say anything to keep us away from it. I won't let her pull another mindfuck."

"But what if you're wrong?" she asks earnestly. We slow down to a turtle-like fifteen. I shrug and look over at her.

"I'm not wrong."

Before she can say another word, her cell phone rings. She fumbles with it and answers with a sigh of relief.

"Scully," she says laconically. "Hello, Dr. Vandeyar. Yes, I'm all right-- yes? You did? And what did you find? I-- oh. Oh. Are you sure? You're-- my God. Seriously? Clearly not-- oh, my God. Viral, for certain? Yes-- yes, I know what this means-- I don't know if I expected it. I know how this will go through the scientific community."

I almost get in an accident trying to make sense of this conversation, but the gist is clear. This is it. This is the phone call I've been waiting for and these are the answers I always knew were coming. I've spent years searching and now it's all mine. Scully's eyes are wide with shock. I try not to look at her. This has to be hard for her. She's been stubbornly, skeptically wrong for all these years, and now there is proof. Hard, scientific, irrefutable proof of life beyond this sphere.

"When can I come in? I want to run an analysis of the antibodies in Marita's tissues against another sample--" very smooth, Scully, I think as I realize the other sample must be hers-- "Wonderful. No-- no-- don't release this to the press. Not yet-- yes, I think we should wait for further corroboration."

I lift an eyebrow as she finishes the conversation and hangs up. She licks her lips nervously and turns to me. There's a long pause before she opens her mouth and starts speaking in clipped tones.

"Marita died from a virus that they haven't identified, but it's clearly not terrestrial," she begins, her crystal-blue eyes staring earnestly at me.

"They're sure?" I ask eagerly. Scully nods slowly, unconsciously hugging herself, locked in her own embrace.

"There's no other possible explanation. They're not sure of your claims that this virus is sentient, but it's a virus they've never seen before. It's done things against all the laws of nature," Scully says. "I don't know what to think, Mulder. It's what you've always said. It's the discovery of a century. Of any century."

Her face is beautifully pale and disturbingly upset. Poor Scully. The world has turned upside down; I can't expect her to stand up and cheer. Especially not in traffic moving thirty-five. I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back. Then I remember something.

"But you said not to release it?"

"We're not ready. It's not time."

The full impact of this statement hits me and I drop her hand.

"You're not the one who should decide that! Scully, we can't hide the truth!"

She glares at me. "You're right. I shouldn't make these decisions," she says. "But neither should you. It's a conflict of interest. It has been since the beginning. We need to give this case to someone else."

I pull onto the offramp for the airport as Scully gives me a dark look and we barely miss sideswiping a Volvo station wagon.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" I ask, zooming past another pissed driver. "I hate to break it to you, Scully, but we're the only people out there qualified to handle this investigation. We have greater responsibilities. We'll have to put aside personal feelings--"

"Mulder, do you think Johnny will do that?" Scully asks sharply. "Johnny won't just let this go. The day after you implicate her, she'll run to Barbara Walters to explain the entire sordid personal affair. Clinton-Lewinsky will look like a Sunday at church after Johnny gets through with it. You'll be the closet case rapist who couldn't get it up for his madonna, and I'll be the repressed lesbian trying to play it straight. We'll be eaten alive."

"At least we never got to that menage a trois," I try to joke. Scully shakes her head.

"That doesn't matter. She'll take us down even as we expose her."

"So then we should deal with her?" I snap angrily. "Fine. Do you want her to come to bed with us, too? I'm sure you'd enjoy that."

"Dammit, Mulder!" Scully shrieks at me. "You're too close to this! It's not a case for you. It's a damned vendetta! And in vendettas, people die. I don't want to see you die--"

Her voice breaks and she slumps down sullenly. I feel itchy. This isn't fair. I don't like hearing Scully defend Johnny, especially now. And I am not pursuing a vendetta. This is justice, and sometimes justice has to be personal when the injustice has been done to you.

"Fine. Whatever. Forget it. But I can't let it go. You've said it yourself, that there's a point you can't give in any more. This is that point. We have to do something," I say, looking at my lover. She looks weary, her white blouse appealingly rumpled. But her face is green with fatigue, and her eyes are bloodshot and teary.

"I know, Mulder. I know. And I agree. But please don't forget what you have while you're making up for what you've lost," she says.

With that, we reach the rental area. Scully gets out of the car and closes the door. I watch her sadly, looking at the loose lines of her blue jacket framing her slim body. She's still the most beautiful and stubborn woman I've ever known. And I can't dream that it's been easy for her, dealing with this situation. Both personally and cosmically, Scully has taken some serious knocks. Guilt tinges my cheeks, and I get out of the car.

"Scully!"

She turns around and squints at me. "Yeah?"

"What I have, I value more than anything."

A shadow of a smile lights her face. "Well, if you value your expense account, get the rental turned in, Mulder."

I nod and tear off. But darker issues still hover around us. I can't and won't just let it go. Scully has to know that justice needs to be served. It's the right thing.

On the way back from the rental counter, I make a phone call. It's a very simple thing; I call the lab and tell them to release their findings one week from today. And then I schedule another press conference in DC the same day. Scully's right. Johnny Valmont could destroy us-- but I think it's time to beat the bitch at her own game. It's time for honesty and truth. It's time for things to change.

Scully's waiting at the ticket counter. "Are you ready?"

"You bet," I say as we walk down the terminal. "Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"Wanna do something impulsive?"

"What?"

"Let's get married," I say out of the blue. "I love you. I always have. So why not?"

She stops cold and sways a little. "Mulder--"

I reach over and pull her into my arms. "Just think about it."

Yeah, that felt right. I feel good. I've just taken us into end game. Johnny Valmont can kiss my ass, because in one week, I'll have the truth, Scully, and she'll have nothing. It's about damn time.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

He wants me to marry him. To be his wife. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health. He wants me to be Mrs. Mulder. Mrs. Fox William Mulder. Dana Mulder. Dana Scully-Mulder. Agents Mulder and Mulder.

Okay, he's certifiable. All of this unprecedented success and machismo have sent my partner to a scary place where we run off and make vows and tell people about what we're doing. Maybe he just wants a good excuse to head for Vegas. But this cannot be what it seems. Mulder, married? I couldn't see it, not in a million years, if that soon. We're not the type of people who get married and settle down. For Mulder, hell is a minivan and a soccer team of eight-year-olds. So why is he asking me to do this?

"You've been quiet for hours," Mulder says as we reach my apartment and I fumble with the keys, trying to get us in. I know he's coming in with me. "Everything all right?"

"I've been thinking about marrying you."

"And?" he asks eagerly.

"Mulder, it's insane. It doesn't make sense."

He looks upset about this. His face falls, even as I unlock the door and push it open. With one grand gesture, we're in my apartment, his knuckles under my chin, his eyes boring into mine. I shiver.

"Sense? Has anything ever made sense?" he asks. "What do you want to make sense?"

I stutter in broken syllables. "Everything. Anything. Mulder--"

"But it does make sense. They sent you to distract me and shut me down. You blew me off. It turned me on-- intellectually--" he whispers into my ear, tickling the delicate hairs. He knows how sensitive I am to that, and I'm almost as dismayed as I am aroused.

"Of course."

"They've had me playing their game for years. But you've changed me. Screw the game. Let's make our own rules," he purrs into my ear, guiding me toward the wall, loosening his tie, arms around me. "We're good at it."

True enough, but all of the facts are not leading to a necessary conclusion. "So this all leads to a white dress and in-laws?" I ask, feeling the texture of wallpaper against my back as Mulder removes his blue shirt and moves his fingers under my top, brushing my nipples beneath the silky fabric of my bra.

"I think it could," he says, pulling off my top and sliding down my bra straps. I feel his erection against my stomach, and a thrill of arousal shivers through my stomach and settles between my legs.

"Mulder--" I whisper, pulling his mouth to mine, kissing him, feeling the texture of his skin against my skin.

"I love you so much," he murmurs into my shoulder, as my hands unfasten his fly and his fingers slip into the waistband of my pantyhose and underwear, a finger flicking my rapidly aroused lips. My knees go a little weak, but he catches me in a ruthless grip. I recover as he starts murmuring. "Always have, always will."

I moan and arch against him, struggling to remove our clothes. I know what he wants, and I want it, too. Mulder pulls back and we rid ourselves of the few remaining pieces of clothing on our bodies. We've got to play skin against skin, the richer warm tones of his flesh contrasting against mine.

But I don't know if I need to change so much. I don't know if I want to change everything so drastically. As I try to think, the tip of his prick brushes against me as Mulder pushes me up against the wall again and pulls my hands over my head roughly. Forget thought. I tilt my hips, aching with want as he nibbles my shoulders and neck. I press against him blindly, grinding into his pelvis.

"Will you?" he asks suddenly, pressing hard against me. I slide over the rest of him, pulling him inside of me. I flex my muscles, so to speak. It feels good, hot and sweet. He shivers and I'm suddenly dazed. Will I? Will I what? Will I marry him? Will I always love him? What is he asking me?

We find a slow, bruising rhythm, pornographic in its intensity as he caresses me. His hands survey my body worshipfully, desire aching throughout my skin and my clit. I thrust against him primitively, fevered want reaching through my nerves and my brain. Will I? He kisses my mouth, and the back of my head bounces against the wall. Oh, will I. I push back again and again, the desire throbbing in my veins. The familiar tingle between my legs shakes through me, turning my bones to water. With one more good thrust, I come, whimpering with lust. Wonderfully painful pleasure floods my body.

"Oh, God, yes, yes, yes--" I cry. What have I just agreed to? Why have I just agreed to it? He keeps thrusting into me, building up arousal again as he seeks release. My heart's beating fast and I keep hearing the sobbing gasps of breath, punctuating each yes. I will, I will, I will--

After a while, we find ourselves on the bed. We're absolutely naked, caught up in each other's arms. We cling to each other blindly for warmth. Nothing feels real. I don't know if I've agreed to anything or not. Am I engaged to him now? Do I want to be? Mulder kisses the top of my head, stroking my body slowly again.

"We've got a week to put it all together," he tells me. "I've arranged two press conferences, and it'll all come out then."

I pull back from his arms and try to look up at him. Our eyes meet and a troubled emotion passes between us.

"A week? You're only giving us a week? Mulder, it's too soon."

"It's soon or never. Evidence disappears very easily around us, Scully. Once we break this to the public, we'll give it up, I swear we'll get off this case. Maybe we'll leave the Bureau, go somewhere quiet--" he promises me. Why does he want to do this? Even if we break the Consortium, and I do want to break them, the truth is still out there. You can never find all the truth.

"I don't think--" I try to say. He presses a finger to my lips. I push it away angrily. I am not his goddamn doll. I am not inferior in any way to him.

"I know it'll work. Scully, trust me."

"I do," I hiss. "But I don't want to leave the FBI. I don't want to just make a one eighty because we can. And I don't want to--"

I pause. Do I really want to dismiss the proposal outright? He shifts uncomfortably. "What don't you want?" he asks.

"I just don't want to make a mistake by moving too fast," I reply. Mulder makes a little noise. "If you hold a press conference in a week, Mulder, I won't stop you. But I can't promise you'll have enough evidence. I can't promise I'll run to the networks with every sordid story from our lives."

"I don't want you to," Mulder replies. "Trust me."

"I do," I whisper. We get quiet then, listening to the sounds of the cars and the apartments around us, and I shiver when I hear the radio playing upstairs--

"No change, I can't change, I can't change, I can't change-- I am here in my moment-- I am here in my moment--"

That's what I'm afraid of, I realize as I lay there. Things never change with me and Mulder. We always lose, and I can't shake this feeling that something is going to go terribly, terribly wrong soon. I blink back tears. What am I seeing here?

"I am here in my moment-- cuz I'm a million different people from one day to the next-- I can change, no no no no no-- Have you ever been down?"

I've been down. We both have. I don't want to be down again, and I don't want to see Mulder down, blood spilt in colorful and fatal patterns, as another eerie voice comes to me-- Luther Boggs, dead all these years, warning Mulder about the white cross. I remember something I wish I could forget. Don't go near the white cross. Stay far far away. Don't go near Johnny Valmont, the pit of my stomach warns. We see you down low--

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

"He did WHAT now?" I scream into the receiver. I thought the Marita crisis had been bad before. This is much, much worse. "Oh, fuck me. Fuck me hard with a rusty knife! Get me all our people in the media and find out how widespread this thing's gonna be-- and what? WHAT?"

Oh, my fucking God. Give your ex-friends an inch and they'll hang you with your own generous rope. I can't believe this. That god-damned fudgepacking son of a bitch Mulder! He's using my own tricks against me! Two press conferences? Two? Gee, I wonder, will one be where they reveal the existence of extraterrestrial life and the other where he reveals the conspiracy and my connections to it? Wouldn't I play it like that? Fucking bastard, he can't even be original! I cannot believe this. I turn back to the mild-mannered press agent who's only the messenger boy and very sorry about that.

"Try to stop this. I don't know how, shut down every broadcast tower in the country, just STOP IT! Blow the fucking lab to smithereens. Blow the entire fucking block to smithereens! Screw everything, because if this happens, in six days, we're dead. We're all fucking dead!" I shriek hysterically. I slam down the phone and hurl a pen at the wall. Nothing breaks. This disappoints me and I throw a sheaf of papers all over the room. This is the best and worst possible time to have a temper tantrum, but I don't know what else to do. Mulder has torn off my balls, metaphorically speaking of course. I start shrieking obscenities at the top of my lungs. It's comforting, and I go at it for a while.

"Johnny Valmont, Jesus Christ!" Angie shrieks, walking into the office. The woman's brave, I give her that. I stop my temper tantrum for a moment. "I can hear you on the next floor!"

"Go away, Angie," I growl. "Now."

"You have sixteen people on hold. Newsweek wants a comment and they don't even know why they want the comment. There are memos from everywhere asking for information. What are we supposed to do, Johnny?"

"Fuck them," I reply. "I'm not here. I'm in Paris. I'm in hell and why the hell are you still here? Get out!"

"Whatever," she mutters with extreme bravery. "I'll do my best for you until you start acting sane."

"Get out before I cap you," I snarl.

Angie backs out now, and I lock the door after her. Then I slide down against the wall and start sobbing like a teenaged girl with a broken heart. Oh, God. I am so fucked. I am dead. The world is going to come to an end. Old Smokey is going to sit back, light a Morley, and laugh. I start crying my eyes out. I haven't cried in forever, since I broke it off with Scully that first time. I didn't even cry when I was dying, but I'm crying now. Oh, God.

The phone rings. I walk over and pick it up. "Valmont," I snuffle.

"It's Mike. I have an offer for you, to make up for my earlier failure."

I catch my breath in unpleasant gasps. Tears do not become a woman of my stature. And I want to hear this. I'm desperate. Anything could help me at this point.

"What's that?" I ask, trying to sound like I haven't been crying.

"I know a man named Vigo. He knows how to retrieve lost merchandise, and he owes me a favor. I'll give that favor to you as repayment. He has clearance into CDC labs. He can get your missing property," Mike says. "And Vigo knows a woman named Julia. Julia has a way of erasing things that need to be erased. Again, this is a free service."

Very, very interesting. Reminds me of a saying of my mother's: God never closes a door without opening a window. This could be the window of opportunity I need to salvage something.

"I'm listening," I say, wiping away tears. "I might have heard of this Vigo. Was he involved with a small theft in Washington, and a larger one in a military installation we all know doesn't exist?"

"That would be Vigo," Mike says, a little of his old bravado back.

"I think his services would be useful. In four days, I want him to retrieve my property and deliver it to an address I will provide to you on that day."

"What about Julia?" Mike asks. "You know I'm here to help you fully, Johnny. Your success is mine."

"You're damn right it is," I say, ignoring the quaver in my voice from exhausted tears. "I'll decide about Julia tomorrow and give you the message about what I want done."

"There's a third thing I'm willing to do for you. This troublemaker friend of yours-- if you need him eliminated--"

"No, Michael," I say softly. "That one is a personal errand."

"Really? Johnny? You'd--"

"Every good executive knows when to get involved personally," I say lightly, recovering my composure. "This one must be done personally, though I'm very grateful for your offer, Mike."

He breathes a sigh of relief. "I'm glad to offer, Johnny."

"Thank you, Mike. You'll be hearing from me," I say, hanging up and sniffing hard. I walk over to the mirror and look at myself. Oh, jeez, I have the worst luck with tears. My face is red and puffy, and my eyes are stinging with pain. My eyes are glowing green. Damn, I don't look good. Some women just cannot cry, and I'm among them.

"Why did you do this to me, Mulder?" I ask the sky. "I didn't want you to die. I didn't want to kill you. But what choice have you left me?"

I sit down, lean back, and brood. God, what a mess. What a complete fucking mess. But it's my fault. I should have personally overseen Marita's recapture and I should have immediately retrieved the body. Now Mulder has the upper hand and I need it back. I just wanted to be ethical. I wanted to be a brave new face for the Consortium: an honest whore.

News flash, Johnny: you can't be an honest whore.

Mulder has signed his own death warrant.

I'm going to deliver the bond. I have to. Signed, sealed, delivered, he's dead. I wipe my face painfully. Dead as the dodo. Dead as the dinosaurs. Survival of the fittest, whatever you want, but Mulder wanted this, and so he's got it.

Angie knocks on the door, and I jump up and unlock it. "Johnny-- oh, Jesus, Johnny. Are you okay?" she asks. Tears are as frightening to her as they were to me. I nod curtly.

"Yeah, babe, I'm fine. Anyone else on hold still?" I ask. Angie shakes her head quickly.

"No, I told them you were busy. What happened?"

"Angie, I have to arrange a business trip. Tell surveillance I want a 24/7 coordinate on Fox Mulder's whereabouts. I want to know what he eats, when he sleeps, and when he pisses. I want a constant update on him, straight to me personally."

"What are you going to do to him, Johnny?" she asks, eyes fixed on me.

"I'm going to do what he wants," I reply grimly. Angie looks at me, and slowly nods and backs out. I take a big breath as the door shuts. That's right. After months of antagonizing him, it's time to give in to Mulder's true wish, the wish he's always had.

You want to be a martyr, Mulder? You got a death wish? Well, bitch, meet your avenging angel.

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

Two days left to go until it's all over. Now I know what it's like to be a media personality. I've gotten calls from everyone, Jerry Springer to Peter Jennings, Larry King to Mike Wallace, they all want to know what I'm going to say. Scully nervously tries to collate and create a coherent statement, answers to questions that will no doubt be asked over and over. She refuses to give a definite answer about the question I'm most interested in: the marriage.

I don't know what to think. Why wouldn't she want to take the relationship to the next level? Now that we have the truth, why does she want to stay in the basement? Or maybe we do want to stay, so why do we have to skulk around like the rats? Speaking of rats, I can't believe Alex Krycek has been dead almost a year. Johnny killed him for a slight, or by accident, I don't know. Maybe it was just hormonal. I can't believe that Johnny Valmont and Skinner have a kid. I don't believe that Elvis is dead.

The radio blares out loud, stupid music. "Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain-- I feel summer creeping in, and I'm tired of this town again--"

I don't like Tom Petty. Never did, though I always associated with that song Free Fallin', and I'm free, free fallin, with all the vampires living in the valley. There were vampires in the valley. I still don't like Tom Petty. This was the song where he danced with dead Kim Basinger. Necrophilia, like Donny Pfaster. Killing the living to love the dead. He would have killed Scully if he'd been able to--

Dead. Sooner or later, I'm going to be dead. There won't be any turning back from that. But it'll be Johnny's ass first. I don't know. What's going to happen when she's away in prison? My fingers itch against the steering wheel. What's going to happen to the kid? I don't know if I can deal with Skinner toting a baby in a Snugli. It just doesn't fit. And what if Scully decides out of the blue she wants so eschew the FBI, marry me, and what the hell, adopt the kid while we're at it? It would be so domestic. It would be so weird. But all of this is in the future.

I want her to say yes, I realize. I tap on the steering wheel and hum along to the music-- "she's dancing in her underwear-- looking down from a hotel room and nightfall will be coming soon--"

Nightfall. All of my life, I've been afraid of the dark, of the things that linger in the dark. I'm tired of secrets and lies. Sometimes, I think what I'm going to do with this press conference is to open a few shutters and let the light in. The truth is the light is freedom is--

It will all go well. Scully's been terribly pessimistic and I have to admit her concerns are valid. It could be that the Consortium's ends were just, but they've gotten bogged down in the means, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The ends don't justify the means, and the means were the worst crimes ever done against humankind. The truth will set us free, if I can stop thinking in cliches. Nightfall will be coming soon.

What sort of ring should I buy Scully? I know that she'll say yes. It'll be fantastic. I can waltz her up to that asshole brother of hers, show off the tasteful yet expensive ring I've bought, and let him know William Scully, Junior, can kiss my ass. I think a diamond and sapphire setting on platinum would suit her just right. Nothing too flamboyant, but something tasteful and expensive and understated. Something just like Scully, the love of my life.

I used to think lots of women were the loves of my life. Diana, Phoebe, and maybe even Samantha in a way. But they were only false prophets. I know that now. It's all behind me now. I'll even be able to find Samantha, soon. Wouldn't that be a wonderful present for my mother, a thank you for the help she gave me recently? Samantha, the real and only Samantha, back from a place worse than death. I want to make it up to my mother.

Samantha was only a part of a greater whole, I know that now. I'll know it all very soon. The cell phone rings. I pick it up and cradle it on my shoulder.

"Mulder," I say quickly. "Is that you, Scully?"

"Fox Mulder," a computer-synthesized voice says. "Your time is up."

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"Fox Mulder," the voice replies again. "You have to go. Wave bye-bye. Wave bye-bye."

"Who the hell is this?" I snap. "I don't believe this."

Someone's dicking with me, and it's pissing me off. It's probably one of Johnny's hired goons. Fine, Johnny, do that. It's just more evidence to prove the bitch is insane and a criminal. I'm not going to give in. Her trial is going to be a joke; Johnny's guilty as sin. She'll be in jail for the rest of her natural life. If you can call her life natural in any way, shape, or form.

"Wave bye-bye," the voice on the phone chirps again.

You have to know when to turn the page. Once I finish this, I can move on with my life. I want to move on. I've been in the revenge business too long, and it's become something strange and eventually revolting. No wonder I was alone for so long. It took someone special, someone I really don't deserve, to understand me and save me from the abyss. And she's right, I don't want this to become a vendetta.

"Oh, fuck you. And fuck Johnny, too," I snap, pressing end on the phone and throwing it on the seat. The song's changed to a low, moaning woman's voice. Oh, wait, I recognize it-- Sarah McLachlan. Who set this station, anyway?

"I will remember you-- will you remember me? Don't let your life pass you by--"

I'm about to change the station to something a little less cloying when I hear this sound that buzzes and fills my ears. I know this sound. What's the sound?

Glass shattering. That's this new sound. Pain. Terrible pain, rushing through my neck, and this spurt of red fluid. Blood. I've bled so many times, you'd think I could recognize blood. Oh, I know the sound, I know the sound! It was a bullet. Yeah, that's the sound.

I've been shot. My hand flies to my throat. Oh, I've been shot. Did it just graze me? The bullet got me, officer. Oh. I'm dizzy. I've been shot. And everything's blurring in front of me-- I think this is bad. This has to be bad, as I feel a strange hard object hit me in the forehead. It feels like vinyl. The steering wheel?

Oh God. It hurts. I'm dying. I've been shot and I'll die. I can't see, I'm behind the wheel with a gaping hole in my throat and how can I be thinking any more? Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time-- no! I'm not dying. I can't be dying. I have a future. I have Scully. Pain, this is too much pain. The blood is covering my hands. Oh, it hurts and everything is so strange.

This isn't right. I can't be dead. I can't be dying dying dead, and this must have just grazed me, I just can't I just can't and the sound I make is just the strangest moan-- and if I die today, if I die today--

Nightfall will be soon will be now. I can't be dying, Scully is waiting for me to come home, the people are waiting for me to tell them, Scully is at home and she's going to say yes. What I have, I value more than anything. I value my life. I can't be about to die.

I-- and the sound is too much. It sounds like iron crunching. Crunching iron, and pain, and pain and oh, God, Scully--

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

The shot that kills Mulder also kills a carload of innocent bystanders. The entire lot of them crash into a railing and three more cars barely manage to miss the pileup. I'm sorry. But I don't feel sorry as I drive off, daring my driver to say a word. This guy knows he's a dead man, or at least, one that doesn't get to remember a few weeks sometime very soon.

"Oh, my God, my God," I whisper to myself, throwing the gun under my seat. That's one gun that'll be melted down by tomorrow. And this car-- well, thank God the Consortium has its own car repair garage. Underground activities require them. I start breathing. With any luck, that car crash that'll have traffic on the Beltway looking hellish very soon will also disguise that gunshot for a while. I doubt it. The damn shot tore out half of his throat.

"Ms. Valmont, where are we going?" the driver asks.

"My hotel room."

"What about the car?"

"We'll take care of it. You, the car, and the gun have to be cleaned up."

He looks terrified. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Not if I don't have to," I reply cheerfully. It's false cheer. Johnny Valmont hath murdered sleep, hath murdered the king, hath done her duty to the world. "You'll just never remember this conversation."

"Okay," the driver says laconically. "I have a question. Is Elvis dead?"

"Elvis isn't dead," I reply calmly. "He just went home."

"What does that mean?" the driver asks.

"That means I'm quoting Tommy Lee Jones," I reply. "Why the hell would I know what happened to Elvis?"

"I thought you were the person in charge of everything," he says.

"No, I'm just in charge of saving the world from the scum of the universe. Unfortunately, the scum's in charge," I muse. "I've said too much. Drive me back to the hotel already."

My cell rings. "Agent Mulder is dead," Angie says. "He was just in a massive car accident." Damn, that was fast. Angie's got good people. I clear my throat.

"It's a bona fide tragedy. Make sure you find out the funeral arrangements so that I can attend. Send money to the favorite charity, flowers to the widow-- well, Agent Scully-- make sure it's anonymous and lavish."

"Are you sure, Johnny?" Angie asks. I know she more than suspects I've rigged the car. And I should have, but shooting him was a lot easier.

Ruining brakes or engines takes time, and Mulder's been highly paranoid ever since I threatened him. I had to do it the way I did. I shake back and forth in the car. Why did he make me kill him? Why couldn't he just believe me?

"I'm sure, Angie, very sure," I reply curtly. "Let's talk later, on a land line."

"Yes, sir," Angie replies, hanging up. The driver does a sharp turn, heading toward the Watergate. I dial another private number, and bark a few sharp orders into the phone, and that's done. Driver, car, and gun will be taken care of the minute I arrive. I feel my heart slow down. Mulder's dead.

With that, my problems are basically over, unless Scully decides to be stupid. She'll know immediately I had something to do with this death, but there will be no connecting proof. No one will be able to find the gun that shot him, and possibly there won't be a bullet. The trauma will be hard to find amid the car wreck. Those first few critical hours and days, they'll think he just lost control of the car. By the time he's buried, it'll be too late.

People are waiting at the Watergate. The driver looks frightened but acquiesces as a man gets into the vehicle with him and drives away. Another man, the classic man in black, helps me into the hotel.

"What happened?"

"The car's dirty. Possibly bugged. I need it cleaned. And the driver, too. Also, I need it to stay between a very few of us. Not even Colquitt needs to know about this one, all right?"

"Who died?"

I look at the man. "You'll know soon enough," I say laconically. "Just make sure there aren't any connections."

I sweep past him into the hotel, waving away the overattentive concierge. I think I should burn this suit, but it's Versace. You just don't burn Versace. Now I need to get a new black suit anyway, out of respect for the dead.

I make a phone call. "Mike here," the man answers.

"How's my missing property?" I ask quietly.

"It'll be found tonight."

"And the files that need relocating?"

"Half done," he says. "So, how is your friend?"

"Taken care of."

"How?"

"Don't be an idiot, Michael," I reply. "It's over. If I don't see my property tonight, you'll be over, too."

There's a pause. "I know that, Johnny. I'm not entirely stupid."

"That's good to know, Mike," I reply. "See you later."

I hang up and then dial out again. Bethany picks up to the unmistakable strains of Alanis Morissette. "I have abused my power, forgive me-- you mean we actually are all--"

"Buenos noches, senorita," I say into the receiver loudly. "Could you turn that shit down?"

The volume fades.

"Oh, look, it's the career mom! Coming home anytime soon, Johnny?" Beth asks acidly. I am abusing our contract, and sooner or later, I expected her to pitch a fit. Tonight would be a bad night for it, though.

"No, but you two are coming to Washington. We have a funeral to attend."

"Who died?"

"That Agent Mulder fellow," I reply. Bethany's silence is stunned.

"Damn, Johnny," she finally says. "How?"

"Car accident. How's Danny?"

"She's all good. She tried to sit up today."

I rub my eyes wearily. It's been a long day. It's been a terrible day. "I wish I could have seen that."

"Well, you've been busy," Beth replies softly. "She misses you."

"She doesn't even know me."

"Naw, really, she does. You spoil her," Beth assures me. "So when and where, Johnny?"

"Tomorrow morning, fly out on Delta, go to the Watergate."

"We get to stay in the Watergate? Neat-o," Beth says. "By the way, Columbia is going to let me do a part-time grad program. Sweet, no?"

"That's great, Beth," I say. "See you tomorrow, okay?"

She hangs up and I flop onto the bed. Oh, God, what have I done? I just killed a man with these-- and I stare at my perfect, Chanel-painted manicure-- with these very hands. It's not the first time, but it was the first time I killed a good man. I did a terrible thing today, but I did it for a necessary reason. What can I say? I had to kill him.

Please God, I think suddenly, rolling over on my side, don't make me have to kill Scully. I could hardly stand to kill Mulder, and I didn't even like the bastard. I can't kill Scully, any more than I could kill Danny or Charlotte or Faith or Beth. I still love her. What am I going to do if she keeps following Mulder's plans?

Please don't make me kill her. Please.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

I'm sitting in my apartment, waiting for Mulder to get back from the local news stations when the phone rings. "Scully," I say, expecting to hear his voice.

There is a long, slow silence. "Dana Katherine Scully?"

"This is she," I reply. "Who's this?"

"This is Dr. Morgan with the Alexandria Coroner's Office. We need you to come down here."

There's a beep from call waiting. I don't understand why Morgan's so grim. I've been called to morgues before. I am a forensic pathologist, after all. "Could you wait a sec?" I ask. "I have a call on the other line."

"I--"

I click over. "Scully."

"Scully," Skinner says in a weak voice. "Is that you?"

"Yeah. I have a call on the other line."

"Get rid of them. I have to tell you something important."

"Okay, just a minute," I say. "Hello? Dr. Morgan? Can I call you back?"

"I need you to come down here to identify a body," Morgan says. "You're listed as next of kin."

My world crashes around my ankles. "Just a minute," I say slowly. I click over to Skinner.

"Scully?"

"Is it Mulder? Is he--?"

"I heard about an accident ten minutes ago. Scully, I--"

Tears are already burning my cheeks. "Sir, I have to go to the Alexandria morgue to identify the body."

"Do you want me to meet you?" he asks quickly.

"If you'd like," I say dully.

"Scully-- I'm sorry."

"Thank you, sir," I say, and hang up on him. I go back to Morgan.

"Miss Scully?" he says.

"Where do I go?"

After I hang up the phone, I throw it at the wall. It shatters into a thousand pieces. I can't scream. I want to scream. There are no words, no sounds to express this.

Dana, you can't go to pieces, I warn myself, the thought of my name sounding strange to me. Dana. I'm not even Dana to myself anymore. I look around to the mirrors, trying to find a place to turn where Mulder isn't-- he's not-- he can't be-- and how?

I know how.

She said she'd do it. Johnny kept her word. Mulder should have known, why didn't he know, and how did it happen? It actually doesn't matter exactly the way it happened. Johnny Valmont killed my lover, whether she pulled a trigger or arranged a car accident or a heart attack. She did this.

I find the thing within me that can scream. It's not lost in a paper cup after all. I scream and scream and scream. Mulder is dead. He's dead, and I have to go and see the body.

The body of Fox Mulder.

I finish screaming, and I walk into the bedroom, staring at the clothes he's left on the floor and the traces of him which are all I have left of him. It's never now. I'll never speak to him again. What were the last words we shared with each other? This morning, over breakfast, what did we say?

I told him I hated the tie. It was a butt-ugly tie, and now the coroner will see what terrible taste in neckwear Mulder has. I hated the tie. What kind of an idiot am I? My last words to him were, see you tonight, Mulder. Not I love you. Not the right words. See you tonight, Mulder.

I walk out to the car, crushing the components of my phone under the sole of my boots. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie. Oh, God, I'm in shock. I can't feel anything. I can't even wrap my mind around this truth. Mulder's dead, Johnny killed him, and if I do the right thing, I'll be as dead as Mulder.

That might not be so bad. What's my life worth without Mulder? I'm sure he's waiting for me on the other side. Maybe I should just let her kill me. Why not? It would be a mercy killing.

The radio is on. Big traffic accident, deaths, stopped traffic on the Beltway. I realize with no shock (I'm too dulled to feel anything, like I've been wrapped in cotton) that the accident was Mulder's. He's stopped traffic. I take a detour to the hospital. Not the hospital, hospitals are for people with chances. I'm going straight to the morgue, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

Go. What the hell is Go, anyway, I wonder when I pull into the parking lot? I stalk to the morgue.

"Hello," the attendant says.

"I'm Dana Scully, I'm here to identify a body?" I say bravely. I'm not crying. I can't cry right now.

"ID, please."

I show the man ID. He takes me to Morgan, who's tall and blonde and stunned to see that I'm such a small thing. I wonder vaguely how the body can be in the morgue already. Morgan explains, possibly by use of telepathy, that the accident was three hours ago. I nod.

"Can I see him now?" I ask.

"Are you ready, Agent Scully?"

I nod. Morgan opens the door and I walk over to the body. Then I scream at the top of my lungs again. His body is lying there, bruised and bloodied. I can barely tell it's him, but I know. The man on the gurney is Mulder.

Strong hands grab my shoulders. It's Skinner. I try to pull away, but he's got me tight. "Agent Scully!" he shouts at me. "Agent Scully!"

"She killed him," I manage to say, getting my voice under control with great difficulty. "She did this, sir."

"Who did this?" Skinner asks, his voice dropping to a low buzz.

"Johnny Valmont," I say. The words burn my tongue.

"Scully, Mulder lost control of the car. He got into a huge accident that killed three other people."

"She did it, sir," I growl. "She told us she would and she did."

Skinner lets me go and stares me down. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure as I can be," I reply. "We have to pursue this."

"And we will," Skinner says. "But right now I want you to go home with me or to your mother's. You're in shock. And if Johnny killed Mulder, she'll probably be after you, too."

"No. She loves me. She won't do it. But--"

"I still don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone. For your safety, Agent Scully."

I slump down. "Call my mother, please," I say. "I can't deal with this."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see two orderlies rolling Mulder away, to be put in a drawer where I'll never see him again. "Mulder!" I shriek, breaking away from Skinner and running to him. "Mulder!"

"Scully," I hear Skinner say, but I don't care. I push away the orderlies and touch his face one last time. I look at him.

"Mulder," I whisper, trying not to cry. But I can't help it. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I love you. I promise I'll make this right, Mulder--"

He's dead. He's not coming back. I start crying again. Skinner moves toward me again, but I pull away, feeling pain again, the sharp ache of emotions cutting into me again. I sit down in the closest chair and try to remember breathing as the searing pain of loss tears into me over and over again.

Mulder. Oh, God, Mulder--

* * *

 

**CSM:**

The phone call comes six hours afterwards. I'm getting ready for bed, with the drone of John Wayne in the background.

"Mulder's dead, sir," the efficient voice says. "A few hours ago."

I have a moment in which I cannot speak. Mulder is dead. Mulder? Dead? It's impossible. Actually, it's quite possible, but stunningly inopportune for the boy. After he had Johnny on the run and Scully in his bed and Newsweek looking to make him the Prophet of the Day, to die now is simply impossible. At least, naturally.

"How?" I finally manage to ask.

"It was a car wreck, sir."

"An unfortunate event," I say. "Was it an accident?"

"We can't be sure," he replies. "However, Ms. Valmont is in DC today. And she did put in a call to her nanny about attending the funeral early after Mulder's death."

My God, that little bitch. The audacity! She actually killed Fox Mulder and has every intention of sashaying to the funeral, baby in arms, smirk on face, Armani suit tailored tight and sleek. If she did this, there is going to be hell to pay.

"And what about the body?" I ask. "How is that going?"

"Good news, sir. It's been recovered. Johnny claims that's why she was originally in DC-- recovery and clean-up. That's what we've seen, as well."

"That's good to hear," I say. Obviously, Johnny's done something right. But is that a cover-up for her greater purpose-- putting a cap into her very disliked rival? I wouldn't put it past her for a second. "Do you have anything else?"

"No, sir. As soon as the autopsy's finished--"

"Did anyone call his mother?" I ask suddenly.

"Not that we know, sir. Agent Scully identified the body and damn near had a mental breakdown. Apparently-- we found this out as Skinner was trying to calm her down-- he'd proposed."

"Really? And--"

"She was going to say no. She felt terrible about it. And she's postponing Mulder's press conference until she's ready to give it herself. We're not out of the woods yet, sir."

"What about the doctors?" I ask. "Are they going to give their press conference?"

"Valmont has persuaded them not to talk. It was surprisingly simple without Mulder buzzing around them endlessly." Pause. "Sir, I think she might have killed him."

I snort. "Johnny killed Mulder? But he died in a car accident."

"Sir--"

"Keep an eye on her. Make sure the situation stays fortuitous for us. But make sure Johnny doesn't get cocky."

"Yes, sir," he says.

"Good work," I say, and hang up. I bury my head in my hands. There's going to be hell to pay. That girl crossed a line you just don't cross.

Mulder is dead. It's a concept I can hardly conceive of. I never expected him to die, just get lucky over and over again. I thought maybe God was protecting him, or someone other than God. He had luck no one else ever had in my experience, except for one other person. Of course, the one other person just killed him.

I have to call Teena, to see if she knows. My hands fumble for the phone and I dial the familiar but never-used number.

"Hello?" she asks sleepily.

"Teena?"

"What?" she asks, instantly waking up at the sound of my voice.

"It's Fox," I say softly. "Teena, he's dead."

Her breath catches in her throat. "When?"

"About six or seven hours ago," I say. "He died in a car accident. Nobody's called you?"

"Who would remember, except you?" Teena asks. "How did he die in the car accident?"

"We don't know. An accident."

"She did it," Teena says. "He burnt her and she killed him, didn't she?"

"I think so," I murmur. "Agent Scully's in shock, I'm sure she'll call soon. Did you know he was going to marry her?"

"I could have guessed," she replies. "You let the bitch kill him! How could you let it happen? How could you let her run around with her gun and her power-slut attitude? Don't you remember Iseult and Carly? Don't you have a brain in your head?"

"She did what needed to be done!" I snap.

"You let her kill my son!" Teena screams. "You let her do it! Why?"

"I don't let her do anything!"

"You emasculated son of a bitch," Teena hisses into the phone. "Decades of absolute power, and she's pulled the rug out from under you. Don't you know she's running this game, not you? I thought you at least could control your domain. It appears I was wrong."

"Teena--"

"Good night," she says, hanging up the phone. I stare at the receiver before putting it up. Is it true what she says? For the first time in a long time, doubt crosses my mind. I thought I was the one holding the reins on this game, but if Johnny managed to kill Mulder and destroy the evidence before I even heard about it, she's had me in her pocket and I didn't even know it.

The telephone rings again, and I pick it up. "Hello?"

"Colquitt?" an excited but tired voice asks.

"Johnny, where are you?"

"DC. I'm waiting for the funeral," she says coolly. "We have to talk."

"You're right, we do," I say slowly. "What do you know about his death?"

"He lost control and so he died," Johnny replies cheerfully. "It's a tragedy. But anyway, I just wanted you to know I'm going to be down here for a while. I'm sorry about Mulder."

"Johanna--"

"I have to go to bed now. Danny and Beth want to see the Smithsonian tomorrow, and I figure what the hell? Gotta go. Don't want a cranky infant on my hands, you know what I'm saying?"

She hangs up. I stare at the wall. I've been overcome by her, too. I thought I was so intelligent, that I'd seen all the tricks. But I've been worked by a woman with a baby. She's seen me down low, and now all I can do is order an assassination and hope that it works.

But not yet. Not until after the funeral, because that might be enough to implicate Ms. Johanna Valmont in the numerous crimes she's committed, without any unseemly help from me.

* * *

 

**Frohike:**

Mulder, you son of a bitch. This isn't right. I never thought in a million years you'd go down like this. It's a casualty our war wasn't ready for, and you had no right to go and die like this.

Of course, in the borrowed copy of the autopsy results Langly found out there in cyberspace (we won't go into it), we found out it wasn't really your fault that you're here. You were dead when your car took out that BMW. There's some nice powder residue where your throat should have been, enough for Scully to prosecute like mad if she ever shifts out of neutral.

Mulder, you bastard, that's the only reason I can find to be pissed off at you now. Do you see her? Most people think she's just being cold, the natural Ice Princess, sitting there without a tear on her face. But those of us who love her (and you know I love her as much as you did) know better than that. It's all in her eyes. They're screaming while the rest of her refuses to show one bit of weakness. There are too many enemies about.

Did you ever think you'd get a big funeral like this? Jesus, Mulder, half of the world's out. MUFON, FBI, undercover hackers, geeks, nerds, and visionaries all here to pay their last respects. Plenty of rubes, too, people who thought you were a crimestopper plain and simple. BSU, the boys you thought you pissed off for good? Bawling like girls. In fact, the very few ladies who are attending the funeral aren't shedding a damn tear. They're too busy plotting murder.

Of course that dark-haired beauty queen is here, the one you've been having us tail, Miss Johnny Valmont of New York City? She showed up bold as brass, in this sleek black suit, heels, and a set of black sunglasses. Talk about the Men in Black... and then Scully stood up. Scully was swaying like a drunk (there are a few here today, Mulder, but she's not one of them), and I was thinking there was going to be a fight.

Then your mother, Mrs. Boston Blueblood, steps in. She's classy, Mulder, I can see where you got the holier-than-thou big-man attitude. She just stepped in between the two of them and I couldn't tell if they were all going to get into a screaming match or if your mother was going to sit them both down. They were three icicles in black, staring each other down. It was really fairly interesting, and the media vultures were looking at it carefully.

Then the fourth woman stumbled in, the one carrying the baby. She looked like your average person, just wearing a simple black dress and a big pair of Doc Martens. She couldn't have been that old, twenty-two, twenty-three? And Johnny looked at her with downright panic, and Skinner-- well, damn, Skinner almost fainted, Mulder. I don't think it was because of the girl, though. It was the baby.

"Johnny, please, let's sit down," she said, loud enough for most of us to hear. "Johnny, please?"

I didn't think Johnny was going to listen, but the kid just practically pulls her back to a dignified seat and sits her down. It was really quite impressive. Scully finally took a deep breath and sat down, and Mrs. Mulder nodded at the kid before taking her seat. And there we are.

The minister's droning on and on. I can't believe between your mother and Scully, they arranged this sort of funeral. You were never a God man, Mulder. Maybe that's a bad thing. I can't tell. In Vietnam, I found myself believing in God like nobody's business, as the ultimate paranormal phenomenon. Never again did I feel quite the same way, until today. Today is just too weird.

It's been cloudy as hell all week, but today, it's sunshine and birds singing. And this July has been muggier and steamier than a crawfish boil, but today it's mild. You couldn't pick a better wedding day or a less appropriate burial day. All these people I haven't seen in eternity are here. Would you have believed it, Fox Mulder's funeral becoming NerdCon 2000? I've been looking for the Smoking Man, but I haven't seen him anywhere. I suppose Johnny's the conspiracy's chosen member to oversee this.

She's gorgeous, Mulder, but I couldn't have ever slept with her, not with Scully next to me every single day. Of course, how do I know? The rumor is nobody can resist Johnny Valmont. Maybe she should write a book or something. I don't know.

People are sobbing like crazy, Mulder, people I never would have guessed. Byers, you know him, he's on his third handkerchief. Three or four tough G-men are sobbing like it's Steel Magnolias, and a few of the world's zaniest abductees are squealing like banshees now.

Scully doesn't budge. Valmont looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Skinner's staring at the baby, jaw dropped. The baby's asleep, too. Cute kid. Unofficial sources told me her name was Danielle a while ago, and the girl, the nanny, is Beth. Beth looks solemn and alive, compared to everyone else. She's the normal girl in the middle of freaks, weirdos, and government employees.

I think it's a good thing your mother insisted on a closed casket service. The pictures they had on you in the report were bloody. It was a roadkill Mulder souffle. Your body looked bad; whoever took you out was a smart SOB. He knew it would be hard to figure out you'd been shot down like a damn dog.

I promise, Mulder, we won't rest until we put this asshole down, get him the justice he deserves. I think Scully will need a week or two. Byers asked Skinner and he said she's on forced leave for a week. She did not want to stop. I'll do what I can, and more, dammit. You shouldn't have gone like this, Mulder.

People start streaming up to the casket. Sobbing, not sobbing, hands cross the top of the cherry-tinted wood, saying good-bye. The usual suspects hang back towards the end of the line. For some reason, I look at the Beth kid, who looks like a damn wax sculpture. She walks up to the casket, baby in arms, and touches the side of the casket. Then she says something weird. I don't think anyone was supposed to hear, though she said it rather loudly.

"Hic jacet Mulder, Rex quondam Rex futurus."

"What the hell is that?" I hear someone murmur. I shrug. Scully's face is twisted up bizarrely, as though she recognizes it. But everyone immediately loses interest in that as another huge scene starts up.

Scully's been pushed up to the front of the line, and she's the only person brave enough (and cracked enough at this point) to do what she does: lift up the lid of the casket and peek in. She screams at the top of her lungs.

Everyone freezes, and the baby wakes up and starts howling. Beth immediately starts patting her, as four or five people run up to the casket behind Scully and stare into it after her. Scully's backed away from the casket, her expression a mixture of horror and the strangest sort of hope. I can't figure it out at all.

"What the hell is going on here?" Johnny shouts from the crowd. AD Skinner, who's one of the people hurriedly examining the casket, wheels around and glares hideously at her. That's also really impressive.

"The body's gone," Beth pipes in. She hasn't been anywhere near the casket. "Isn't that it?"

"Gone?" someone says. "You mean there's no body in there?"

Skinner's mouth opens and closes. "It's gone. There are sandbags in there."

Scully's head is buried in her hands, and anyone with half a brain knows she's crying now. Johnny Valmont's face has gone the weirdest color of yellowish green. It's not very attractive.

"Oh, cluster fuck me," she mutters, grabbing a cell phone out of her expensive trench coat. I bet it's hand-made exclusively for psychotic despots of underground conspiracies. She's halfway out of the crowd, dialing to God only knows who.

Mrs. Mulder has stayed calm, not moving in the mass of reporters and well-wishers who have needed to see to believe. Beth is sitting in a pew, patting the baby. Skinner's eyes are darting through the crowd, looking for God knows what. Scully or the baby, I think.

Congratulations, Mulder. Not only was your life the pinnacle of heroically weird and your death a tragedy for the masses, your funeral has now qualified for the cult event of the decade. If the bastards didn't want your mission to become a crusade, well, they shouldn't have stolen your body. I'm quite impressed, Mulder. You left this world with style-- now if you'd just bothered to stay around, that would have been a trick to top.

* * *

 

**Skinner:**

Scavenging reporters, bitchy ex-lovers, stony mothers, and now my child bouncing through the crowd of UFO chasers is too much for me. Mulder has managed to make a spectacle out of his own funeral by failing to show up.

"Excuse me!" I shout. "We need everyone here to vacate the building as soon as possible in an orderly fashion, after I have two agents take down your name and phone number. If we need your assistance, we'll be in touch."

Johnny Valmont shoots me a nervous little look and sits down. Scully is still in tears in the front pew, and Teena Mulder has remained seated even before my announcement. Well, I definitely think we needed to talk to them anyway. Frohike and the other Gunmen might be useful, as they were the first ones to mention the autopsy on Mulder had turned up gunpowder residue. Of course, it's interesting the obvious suspect is green and antsy right now, too.

Stonecipher and Kinsley are the first agents to get to me, and they're perfect for taking down a few names and numbers. I give them a few brief orders and slowly but surely, the crowd filters away. Johnny just sits there, looking horrified.

"What do you know about it, Ms. Valmont?" I ask, sitting down next to her. "Off the record."

"I know I wasn't expecting it," she replies. "I've been running around DC with the baby this week."

"Speaking of the baby--" I murmur. "You've been here an entire week and you didn't bring her by once?"

"I-- well, is this really the time to discuss it?" Johnny fumbles, her eyes still on the casket. Actually, I notice, they're not. They're on Scully, and the familiar covetous gleam is sparkling.

"Yes. I think that now is better than six years from now when you hand her over to me on a whim."

Johnny snorts. "Six years from now, my household staff is going to be legendary for their buying power. Bethany gets thirty-five grand a year already."

"Christ, Johnny, I'll never be able to afford that."

"You don't have to," she replies. "I made the mistake. You didn't want a kid, and you sure as hell didn't want my kid. I don't expect you to do anything. No hard feelings."

I look at her. "What if I want to be involved?"

"Why would you want that?" she asks, still watching Scully.

"Jesus Christ, Johnny, I'm Danielle's father."

"That's not your fault."

"I want to be involved."

"I don't know if that's wise," she hisses at me. "In fact, I know it's not wise. We're on different sides of a war, Walter. I can't allow myself a weakness that great."

"This isn't a war. This is a child and the rights I have to her."

"I never named a father," Johnny replies bitchily.

"But I know I'm--"

"Listen, Skinner. Forget it. We're never going to work this one out and frankly, I don't want to."

"Could I at least see her?" I ask.

"Sure. Fine. Bethany Mae Hays!" Johnny shrieks.

The redheaded girl scrambles up from her pew and walks over, looking dazed and confused. She looks at us with a distinct lack of interest.

"Are we going to stay here all day?" she asks tiredly.

"Beth, show him the baby."

"What am I, the display case?" the kid snaps, unceremoniously handing me my daughter. "You must be Dad. This is Danielle Corinne, your little darling baby girl. She eats, sleeps, defecates, cries, and watches Teletubbies with me. Smart baby. You both should be very proud."

I look down at the very small person in my arms. She yawns and stretches kittenishly. She seems very nice and normal for a months-old infant, and she has that nice baby smell. I run my finger along her forearm. She's so little. Beth looks at me expectantly.

"Well, you're certainly--"

"Danny and I spend eighteen hours a day, seven days a week together. Familiarity breeds contempt. She doesn't like me, either," Beth explains. "So when are you pitching in, Rambo? Or are you too masculine to bother with childcare?"

"Not anytime soon," Johnny snaps. "And Beth--"

"Oh, Johnny, don't be like that, please! If he wants to help, LET HIM," the girl sighs. "So, okay, you all can figure out a visitation schedule without me. I have been here all day, and I had a friend to visit today. I am really sorry about Mulder. Tell Agent Scully that and stuff. But I'm out of here."

"Beth!"

"You said I would only have to work until two," she replies airily. "It's three-thirty. I'm so gone. Peace!"

She sashays right out, leaving Johnny and me to stare after her. "Well- shit," Johnny mutters. "So, you probably have lots of fun questions to ask me."

"Yeah. There are quite a few things we need to discuss. And Johnny?"

"Yes, Walter?"

"Bring a lawyer."

She sneers. "Oh, aren't you so macho. Okay, here's my card. I have the little pumpkin to take care of tonight. Can I go now?"

"Sure. Fine," I say, taking her card. "Oh, and stay the hell away from Scully right now."

"Excuse me?" Johnny asks, extending herself to her full height.

"You heard me. I saw that look in your eye and I know what it means. She's upset and vulnerable and just-- keep away from her."

"Oh, go to hell," Johnny replies, taking Danielle away and walking out of the church, leaving me alone with a card and a great deal of something to work through. As if my life weren't complicated enough, now all of this has become one inbred mess. Wonderful.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Beth slinks in from her festivities just past three in the morning. I'm sprawled against the couch, doing some serious thinking. Oh, and some serious drinking. She's surprised to see me awake, I can tell.

"You have fun?" I ask.

"It was okay. Why are you still up?"

"Are you going to quit? I know I'm a shitty employer-- just say the word--"

Bethany makes her usual annoyed face.

"No, Johnny," she says. "It's just that I don't know. Grad school is hard enough without Danielle to mother. I don't know--"

"Do you wanna know, Beth?" I ask, slugging back another swallow of th scotch, a man's drink, my grandfather's drink. Beth, with her big fine-grained hazel eyes bloodshot and that moon-pie face covered with iridescent glitter, sits down. "You're always asking questions, so how about some answers?"

Beth takes a deep breath. "I got a headache, Johnny."

"Stay here, Bethany," I reply. She does, peering at me through thick blue eyeliner. Her thick red hair is waved and bushy around her face.

"I'm listening."

"My mom was the biggest whore on Martha's Vineyard. Started it when she was thirteen. Everyone said it was because of my grandmother, Iseult, but that is bullshit. Iseult was a Russian virologist whose husband was killed in the Holocaust. She met my grandfather in London in the forties, and came out here early on. They fell in love. She aided the work. And the one day in 1973, she traded herself for her daughter...and me. I don't know, Beth. I wouldn't have done it. My mom was worthless, and Iseult had to know it. Have you ever known someone absolutely useless, Bethany?"

No answer. I sigh and take a fruitless drink.

"My dad could be anyone. And before I start, I'll spare you all the pain of childhood. Just so you know, I have a sister who's about four years younger than you. She's really pretty. Does porn because our family is fucked up. And this is not why I'm talking to you. I'm telling you why I'm so dangerous and it's not because of my background."

"Then why?" Beth asks hoarsely.

"Because the world can be mine and I know it," I say. "I have an easy in, Bethany. My family is ten million times worse than the Mafia. But if you think I'd be different if my mom was a housewife from Burbank, you're just as dumb as anyone. I figured it all out tonight, Beth. I do whatever I have to so I can do whatever I want. There's nothing I won't do, and that's the worst way you could ever possibly be. And you know what's worse? Someone up there likes me, Bethany. Do you ever see me fail?"

"Not very often, Johnny," she admits.

"Not very often?"

"Well, you obviously wanted Agent Mulder to do something before he died, and he didn't. And-- well-- Johnny? Do you-- um-- are you-- were you with Agent Scully?"

She shifts uncomfortably. Well, damn, I'd never expected Beth to be so observant. She seems so bubbly and bright, but not much of a listener, and here it is.

"Good call," I mutter into the darkness. "You know, when I fail, I'm always at my worst and my most ruthless. But then I bounce back, I always do-- and I move on. You should be afraid of me."

"Johnny," Beth says softly. "You're drunk, honey."

"I could be drunker."

"You need to go to bed. Obviously you're upset about Mulder, and you need to rest.

"You don't know the half of it, Beth. I hated him! I wished him dead and when it was finally true, I freaked. The son of a bitch! He wanted to take everything from me! They all do! And you know, Beth, you're so right, it's because I'm a woman. They hate you when you're a man with a pussy--"

"Johnny, get up!" Beth snaps. "Come on, sweetheart, you need to go to bed."

She pulls me up with all her strength-- and she's a big, strong girl, so I'm on my feet and halfway to my bedroom, holding on to her tight.

"God, I hate them all. I wanted to be better than this--"

"Johnny," Beth says, pushing me into my bedroom and flicking on a light. "You're going to wake Danielle. Get undressed."

"Why? Are you gonna sleep with me? I don't like pity fucks--"

"No, dummy," Beth says. She looks so big and strong in the doorway, like a mother (certainly not mine, though). "Right now, you're psycho. And when you wake up, un-psycho, you're gonna be pissed if you ruin that brand-new Dior suit."

The thought percolates through my drunken, remorseful brain.

"Oh! Duh!" I cry, unbuttoning the jacket. "Beth, you are so smart. Okay. Lose the suit. I'm gonna sleep naked."

"That's more than I needed to know, but all right. Night, Johnny."

She walks out and closes the door. I pull off my clothing and crawl buck-naked under the sheets. They feel good on my skin. They feel like nothing. Just soft warm comfort. I close my eyes and fall asleep almost immediately. I dream. I remember I've dreamt when I wake up to the sound of Danny sobbing, but I can't remember one second of it. I stretch long and deep under the covers, trying to remember and failing.

I feel good. All of my drunken moralizing seems just like that-- drunken, moralistic, and overwrought. Ethical, hell, I'm just lonely and a touch confused. What I need is the magic back, and I know how to do it. My main problem is tactics, logistics, and the nagging feeling in my stomach that I haven't got a prayer. But don't I always win in the end?

Beth, glitter-free and wearing the remnants of blue eyeliner, peeks in. "Hey. You feeling better?"

"Except for this damn hangover, I haven't felt this good in weeks. Beth, was I totally bombed last night? What did I say?"

"Nothing coherent," she replies.

"Yeah. I was way drunk. So, book us a flight home, honey, and bring me Danielle."

"Can do, boss," she replies softly. As she closes the door and I snuggle back under the covers, I feel all the confidence in the world flowing, and a simple philosophy plotting the way-- if I can do it, why not? Why not? And seducing Scully? I can do that blindfolded.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

Heartbreak is not quite what the storybooks say. It cuts deeper because it's so slow and lasts so long. And you never mend from it, because it's always there. You just learn to deal with the pain and live on. But I never dreamed it could be so difficult.

My mother looks at me from across the room. "Dana, are you going to eat today?"

"Did I forget to eat?" I ask.

"Yes, you did," she says. "I have something nice for dinner. Roast chicken and rice? A little tea?"

"Yes, Mom," I say. "That would be nice."

I look into the fireplace. There's no fire. There's nothing there. It's just ashes. I try to make everything that's lying in pieces around in my mind come together into some sort of organic whole.

He's dead. Johnny killed him. Someone killed him, anyway. Frohike gave me the lab reports, and he was shot to death. One good old-fashioned bullet to the throat which sent him careening into a car which left him mangled. She did this. My mother returns with the tea.

"Dana, I don't know what to say. When your father died, I didn't want to hear everyone talk about how it would be all right sooner or later. I didn't want to hear it would be all right," Mom says softly. "You loved him very much, and to say that time heals all wounds would cheapen that."

"Thank you, Mom."

"But I do have to say that you can't mope here anymore. I didn't know Fox like you did, but I know he'd be upset to see you sprawled out on the chair, staring at the walls all day. If you concentrate on the fact he's dead, it only gets worse."

I shudder and start to sob again. "Mom I don't know what to do!" I gasp after she rushes over and puts her arms around me. "Where am I going to go? Everything in my life was his! I can't go anywhere or do anything without seeing him!"

"Don't you think every woman has the same problem?"

"But, Mom, there's nothing I can put my back up against that's not Mulder. The X-Files, our life-- I don't have friends or other people to talk to."

"What about--" and my mother pauses. "Honey, I hate to suggest it, but what about that Johnny Valmont? She looked as upset as you did at the funeral."

I laugh. "Johnny's the last person on earth I want to talk to about this, Mom."

"Why not? She's a young woman like you, with that fatherless baby, all alone. It might be good for you both to see someone outside of the house."

"Mom, no," I say, pushing her away. "I can't."

My mother's face looks drawn as she sits down across from me on the armchair. I shiver. That was Dad's chair, and the image of him sitting there, reading the paper, is almost too much for me to bear, along with the idea of befriending my-- Mulder's-- murderer. What do I call Mulder? Lover, partner, best friend, what?

"Mom, you know that I had sex with her, right? You know things between the two of us are terribly wrong, don't you?" I snap. "How could you want me to befriend that woman?"

"Well-- she had the baby. I thought maybe she'd changed," Mom says lamely.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Mom, I'll be okay."

"So that means you're going to eat?" Mom asks, finding the long-forgotten and lukewarm tea. I take it gracefully. It's raspberry, which is nice. Isip it slowly, trying to banish the pain of being alone in the universe.

"Actually, yes," I say. "I'm hungry."

"Good, honey, good," Mom says. I get off the couch and follow her into the kitchen. As a matter of fact, I am pretty hungry. My stomach growls as I sit down and start taking methodical forkfuls of food. I can't taste it. Cancer and grief have blunted my taste buds. I chew methodically, chew chew chew swallow, taking drinks of tea to aid digestion. It's all textbook. Textbook eating, textbook grief, textbook life.

The phone rings, and I barely notice my mother walk away to get it. She returns quickly. "Dana, it's Teena Mulder."

"Oh," I say numbly. "I'll be right there."

Carefully, perfectly, I put my utensils down, stand up, and push in my chair. It's very neat, and then I walk into the kitchen and pick up the receiver. "Dana Scully."

"You haven't been at your apartment for over a week," Teena says tersely. "I've wanted to speak with you."

"About what?"

"I think you should go to see Johnny Valmont."

What is this, bond with your favorite murderer week? I shudder. "I have nothing to say to her."

"I don't think you should say anything."

"Then why should I see her?"

"To get justice," Teena says. "She killed him, didn't she?"

The breath catches in my throat. "Do you think so?" I ask.

"I'm sure of it. I think you should make her confess," Teena says. "Go up there. If she's as enamored of you as rumored, you'll be perfect."

"Why do you want me to do it?" I ask.

"She killed my son," Teena says simply. "I want to see her get what's coming to her."

I nod, even though she can't see me. "I'll see about it," I say softly, hanging up.

"What was that about, honey?" Mom asks. I feel sick to my stomach for a minute. What happened to me? What makes it so easy for me to be part of a dark, angry world where revenge and hate and secrets are second nature? My mom seems so naive right now that I can't stand it.

"Mrs. Mulder thinks I should talk to Johnny, too," I say calmly. You can't look into the abyss without it looking into you. My mom smiles.

"See, Dana, I told you it was a good idea," Mom crows. "Come on, let's finish dinner. I have your favorite dessert in the fridge--"

* * *

 

**Mrs. Mulder:**

My hands are the cleanest things I've ever seen, lying against the dark red tablecloth limply. The phone sits five feet away from me, and I simple regard the color and texture of my hands, and consider how innocent they could be.

I was a young woman once, a Radcliffe woman, Justine Kuipers, a true Yankee blueblood. I had everything: money, prestige, good looks, intelligence-- and then I fell in love with Bill Mulder. He was everything I wasn't supposed to want: nouveau riche, scrawny, quite possibly a Jew, quiet. My mother nearly disowned me when she heard I was engaged. But my father allowed it. Sometimes I wonder if Father wasn't a part of the greater plan.

I fell out of love with Bill as quickly as I'd fallen in love. I tried to make up for it with frequent trips to the seashore. I'd write, I'd paint, I'd make sandcastles, but I'd never find what I was looking for, until the day **he**  showed up.

I fell in love again, and the world was magical. I wasn't supposed to love him; I was a married woman, with my own concerns. But he was handsome and intense and above all, verboten. Before long, I was arranging rendezvous in the boathouse and confessing my sins to Iseult Valmont.

Iseult always understood; she knew about finding love after love. She was always the most complacent player on the scene. I think it had to do with her Russian background. Fate existed for her, and she didn't fight against it. Except for once, long after I gave up on my marriage, except for the purpose of keeping up appearances and an occasional mediocre night with Bill.

It was after I found out my husband and my lover had touched that despicable child of Iseult's, the brain-dead whore. Iseult, who had always been unflappable in any crisis, arrived at my house drunk and sobbing. The children were in bed and I was alone.

"Do you know, do you know what I have done?" she asked in her fluid voice. "You don't know, Justine-- where are your babies?"

"In bed."

"Send them away, if you value your soul. Go away from the Vineyard. Leave Bill, leave him, and never look back."

"Iseult, what are you talking about?" I asked.

"They've made a decision for you, Justine, one you'll despise. Get out now, before you can't."

But it was already too late for me. I was blinded by love and a faith in the men in my life. And when Bill explained what happened to Samantha, I knew that Iseult had tried to save me. But instead, she left behind her wretched brat and the monster who would avenge her.

The monster is on my mind. If Johanna Valmont had not killed my son, would I still despise her? Would I still hope that Dana Scully kills her in a fit of rage? She's doing the best she can; it's why I never told my son everything, despite the hate and rage I feel towards the people who created a hell for me and expected I'd like it. I think Johnny could change their Consortium for the better.

But she's still one of them. She's still got my little girl hidden somewhere out there. Johnny might be the best of them all, but not one of them is good enough to live. And Johnny did something I cannot forgive. Fox is dead because she's one of them.

Have I sent that young woman, Dana Scully, out to do the work I'm too afraid to do? Am I as guilty as Johanna Valmont because I've accepted m victimhood? Johnny, for all her grievous sins, never accepted anything. She's the one person who will not allow circumstances to keep her down.

Even the fingernails are clean, I realize. My hands are those of someone who neither labors nor plays. They're the hands of an impotent invalid, who hides in the shadows. I lift them from the tablecloth, which is achingly free of stains or use. I look at them, and then ball up my hands, digging the nails into my skin.

Why did I allow this?

I press my fingernails in as far as I can stand, take a breath, and press them in further.

How could I just stand there as they stole my little girl?

I know I'm bleeding. I have to be. At least I'll finally have stains under those fingernails.

What sort of misguided reason or emotion has brought me to this point where I'm an old woman, childless, sending a poor, distraught girl out to do what I've needed and wanted to do?

I uncurl my hands and look at them. Red stains that match the tablecloth blotch on my fingers and under the smooth ovals of my fingernails. I lift them and start to laugh.

No reason. I just laugh.

My hands are still mine, no matter what I do. They'll never be clean, even if I never see another speck of dust on them. Iseult is laughing somewhere. Her darling Johanna has become the avenging angel we all have to bear for our evil. We've called up the devil; of course she'll never behave!

I still laugh, because that's all I can do now.

My hands are bloody now, and there's no difference from when they were clean. None at all.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

After a long day at the office, there's nothing better than coming home to an absolutely dark and empty house, calling out for the people who should be there and hearing nothing. Yeah, after my momentary panic attack and finding the scrawled note on the desk where Beth explains she's taken Danny on a visit to her friend Teresa's house and not to have a freak scene, there's absolutely nothing better.

Almost immediately, my suit jacket finds the back of a chair, my shoes are tossed halfway across the living room, and the expensive pantyhose are half off when I reach my bedroom. I'm inside the room and unbuttoning my top when I notice her sitting in the chair, aiming a gun at me. I jump three feet and gasp. I hate it when people sneak up on me.

"Dana," I say. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Scully," she says, stressing the syllables coldly. "And I'm here because everyone's decided we need to talk."

I sigh, and stand still, aware of the unprofessional image I present. "What do you wanna talk about?" I ask, feigning a smile. Scully looks at me with dark and angry eyes.

"Well, everyone seems to think you're pretty torn up about Mulder being dead-- Johnny, sit down somewhere, you're making me nervous."

I promptly sit down on the bed, and look at her carefully, the silent hunter, or at least the predator at bay. Her baby blues are bloodshot and worn, and she looks sick, all on account of that useless Mulder. But still beautiful, oh she's perfect any way she looks. Scully will always be beautiful to me. Even if she's wearing jeans and a really awful t-shirt, and she didn't brush her hair this morning.

"Do I look torn up?" I ask. "I mean, it was a bit of a shock-- I suppose it hit me harder than I though--"

"Cut the act, Johnny. You had him killed," Scully says. Her face is a sudden mask of rage. "You were jealous and you killed him."

No and yes. But this is not good. Someone sicced her on me, and this could get ugly. Or maybe this could be a blessing in disguise. It all depends on the way I play it.

"First of all, I didn't kill him. Second of all, why the hell would I be jealous of Mulder?" I ask. "I've never been jealous of him. I pitied him."

"Pity? You?" Scully asks, not even bothering to laugh.

"He was a jackass, Scully, and why wouldn't I?" I ask, staring at her. She blushes and looks down. It's very interesting how the minute we're alone in a room together, there's a charge to everything we say. The bedroom always lingers in the back of our minds.

"Mulder was a good man. You were afraid he was going to bring you down, and you hated him because he--"

"Oh, spit it out," I say, flopping onto my back dramatically. "You think I killed him because of you. You think this is all about you, and the fact that he was going to destroy the world was only my flimsy excuse. How extremely egotistical of you."

Scully blanches and aims the gun at me again with steady hands. I admire the fact she's not waving that thing around like a rank amateur. She might be upset, but unprofessional? She'd rather die.

"He wasn't going to destroy the world. That's your department," she hisses at me.

"Sweetheart," I sneer. "You don't get it. I have much more important things to worry about than you and your paramour. I didn't kill him. I was far more worried about the dead body than the live sex. Sorry, the jealous girlfriend bit is not the right motive."

"You stole Marita's body," Scully hisses. "You stole everything and paid off the doctors. I know that's true at the very least."

"Me personally? No," I say coyly, turning over onto my stomach so I can keep watching her. I'm hungry like the wolf, and this is fun. Death and buried passion? I haven't been this turned on in eternity.

Scully gives me a disgusted little look. "You know what I mean."

"Of course," I say laconically, with a knowing grin. "So you came here to kill me, didn't you? Well, go ahead and do it. I hate to waste time on idle chitchat."

With a graceful move that would impress most, I bounce off the bed, stand up and throw my arms out. Yes, I know it's campy as all get-out, but I have a sense of the dramatic. Scully narrows her eyes and picks up the gun. She aims it at my heart. I'd forgotten she has a sense of the dramatic, too, and she's not quite sane at this point.

"You know, of course, if you kill me, nothing will change. In fact, things'll only get worse," I say casually. I was not expecting her to look so ready to do the deed. "I'm doing my best to change things, Scully. You have to believe that. You know me."

"I know there's absolutely nothing you won't do, and I know you killed him," she says, cocking the gun.

"Yes, yes, fine, keep believing that. But thing about WHY I do things, Scully. It's always why that matters with me. I do things because I want a nice life. Keeping the status quo maintains that life. If we're all living in alien concentration camps, who will design my suits? Who will clean the house? Who will make the next Schindler's List? We'll all be too busy fighting over slop and hiding from alien overlords, and like I really want that. Hello?"

Scully stares at me. "You're despicable."

"Yes, but that works for you," I say, arms still out. It's an eerie feeling, standing here like this. "That works for everyone, and that is why I got involved with Marita's body. I can't allow our friendly friends upstairs to know we're working on a vaccine. Right now, we have a cure. But that's gonna do squat diddly at the rate Purity spreads. As a matter of fact, all of your friends are now working for me, because I've always approved of what they were doing, just not where."

"You're trying to confuse the issue."

"Oh, God, could it be any clearer?" I moan. "What issue, Dana? What am I doing that's so terrible that I deserve a personal execution from you right here right now?" My eyes are focused on her and every quiver is filed away to be used when necessary.

"Mulder!" she gasps, as if his name and his death are the only things keeping her from falling into the dizzying hole I've opened beneath her. I need to get her to forget about him. If she keeps in mind the honest truth, that I killed him in cold blood (no matter how good the reasons), I am dead. And I don't have a death wish. However, the issue is more complicated. Complications will save my life, and so-- I make a quick decision, based on the data.

"I didn't do it!" I cry, falling to my knees, and putting my forehead at the muzzle of her gun. "I swear to you I didn't. But if you believe it-- if you really believe I'm irredeemable, then kill me now, because I don't want to live."

She makes a weak cry, a wail that just sends shivers into my spine and relaxes into my stomach and sits there, a little guilty tingle. But I feel the gun lower and I feel it placed in her lap. I stare up into her eyes, hiding the smile that wants to sneak out.

Oh, I am evil. Taking advantage of half-truths, grief, and using one colossal lie like this? I know her so well, well, better than I used to. She's looking for someone to make things right, and I am more than willing to oblige. Scully, sweetheart, you should have pulled the trigger, because you are in a lot of trouble right now.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

She looks at me, her green eyes lit with some emotion I can't read. Johnny's always hid her ulterior motives very well, so well that I can't ever tell if it's a game or not. But I can't just blow her head off like this.

"Get up. Don't touch me," I say quickly. She pulls back and sits back down on the bed gingerly. I put the gun on the floor. "So if you didn't kill him, who did? Someone shot his throat out, Johnny. That's not an accident."

"No, it's not," Johnny says slowly. "But how would I know? Mulder had enemies. Lots of them. And I'll admit I hated him and I was extremely jealous, but I'm no coward. I wouldn't just blow a man away out of jealousy."

Something is not right about that statement, but I look at her, looking so tense and depressed, and I file it away for later. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe she's lonely, too. That would be against all laws of reason, but the truth follows its own rules.

"Johnny--"

"Yeah," I say. "I'm really petty, I know, but you have to think I have some decency. And even if I don't, I have sense."

I can't help but think that sense is the most dangerous thing of all. Johnny likes things to make perfect sense, on the main assumption that whatever she wants is the right thing. And she makes it work, despite everything that's screaming no and all rules, regulations, and natural inclinations.

"What are you thinking?" Johnny asks suddenly.

"That you're sick. That I'm even worse for knowing how terrible you are and considering letting you off."

"Letting me off?" Johnny snaps sarcastically. "Oh, thank you."

She gets off the bed and sits next to me on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Moving. I don't like to sit still, it makes me antsy," she says. "I am truly sorry about the grief you're suffering right now, by the way."

Her eyes start tracing my outline and I can't tell if it's concern or lust crossing her expression. Oh, God. I can't think about that now. That's why I never should have come here. Any time I get near her, she turns on her charm and I'm trapped like a fly in a spiderweb. She gets better at spinning them every time.

"I'm not going to sleep with you," I say immediately. She shrugs.

"Good. I'm not tired."

"I mean--"

"I know exactly what you mean, Dana," Johnny says. "You still think this is somehow all about you. I don't know how to convince you that I am not a hopelessly hormonal jilted lover."

She leans back, supporting herself on her arms, smug expression on her face. I try to remember why I came. Mulder is the reason I came. Because this woman killed Mulder. Or didn't-- but who else would? Enemies come and go, but there are few enough who have the sheer will to carry out something this drastic. There are so many things I need to know.

"Do you still-- are you--" I stutter.

"Yes," Johnny says. "Sure. If you want to know the truth of it, I'm madly in love with you. I know that's no shock to you, and that your affair with Mulder did make me jealous. But Dana, I have other responsibilities. There's the baby at the very least, and a high-powered job-- you wouldn't believe how celibate career motherhood left me."

"I don't need to know."

"I didn't have to be," she says, ignoring me. "I could have anyone. You're proof of that."

I blush furiously. "Johnny--"

"Anyhow, I could have had anyone. But I didn't want it. Even on those nights when I needed several cold showers, I didn't run after boys. I even left poor little Beth alone after she said no twice. I mean, I have a lifestyle to maintain, and I realized there weren't many people suited for it."

Her face suddenly goes distant, and I wonder if she hasn't grown up since I last saw her. I look at her and realize that my God, she's beautiful. I never think of that when I think of Johnny, I never consider that the mixture of dark hair and greenish eyes and lean, slim body fit together to make something that appeals to the eye.

"So you're lonely, after all that shouting?" I say, trying to be intelligent and witty and failing.

"Lonely's one word for it," she agrees, getting up again. "Get up."

"Why?"

"I've stared at your uncombed, slovenly hair for long enough. You look like the poster child for Calvin Klein's fall line. Sit down. I need to brush your hair-- to keep my hands busy. And keep talking, Scully, I think it's helping both of us."

Reluctantly, although not that reluctantly, I sit down in front of her. Johnny skitters off and recovers a large brush. She then sits down behind me and pulls my head back gently.

"The truth is, I don't know what to feel about Mulder's death," she murmurs, stroking my hair with the brush. It feels really good, and I have to remember who I'm talking to so that I don't just go to mush. This isn't a safe haven here. I whimper appreciatively and push back against her. "I don't like it when good people die. Then again, I can't say I never wished him dead and meant it."

"So you're glad?"

"No," she said, brushing firmly, trying to ignore my little onslaught. "I'm not glad. Mulder's death has ended several possibilities for me, you know."

"What sort of possibilities?" I ask.

She snorts, putting one hand on my shoulder and then moving it away. "I have this stupid dream about you and me. I know it's stupid, because I know who you're in love with," she whispers, her mouth surprisingly close to my ear. I shiver at the sensation. "I think about you coming home here. I know this is really silly, because we're over, we're through. You don't want to be with me."

She's right. She's quite right. But the wheel is turning and the hamster is dead. Wouldn't Mulder's death make it easier for Johnny to make a play? After all, I'm sitting here practically in her lap getting my hair brushed, and this, after I had come with murderous intentions.

"You're not making any sense," I murmur, twisting back and doing the unexpected. I kiss her. She blinks rapidly, but the girl is very fond of kissing and before I can say another word, we're locked lip to lip, her arms around me, trying to slip under my shirt. The kiss is spectacular; one of those masterpieces of acting on both sides electrified by repressed and despised desire. God, she tastes good! I pull back and shake my head.

"What do you mean?" Johnny asks breathlessly.

"Mulder's death should make this all easier for you," I say. "Why would it end things for you? Explain it to me, Johnny. Make me understand this."

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Now, I know I said it's lame when your enemies pull your own tricks on you, but that's because I never see my tricks done well. But Scully has surprised me and done it right. Fake 'em out and then go for the jugular has been my favorite play for a long time, and seeing it on her is almost overwhelmingly sexy, and I still have my hand on her waist.

"Yes, okay," I say lamely. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I stumbled over my words and now-- well, shit. "Well, I figured that it would be easier to prove what a jackass he was alive-- I mean, disrespecting the dead is rather callow, don't you think?"

"So you're actually trying to compete with Mulder over me? And you think I'll find that appealing?"

"No, but to get you, I have to outdo Mulder," I reply, squeezing. She gives me a look and I let go. So much for the unexpected hot sex I'd hoped for. "It's hard to compete with a memory. And you loved him. You look like hell because of loving him. How can I outdo that? You hate me."

"I hate you for several extremely good reasons," she reminds me primly. Scully is being cruel. Her lips are moist and pink from kissing, and I'm really distracted. It's been months, dammit, months, and she's in my lap. "Don't forget that."

"Name the reasons," I say, still refusing to be outdone.

"Well, in the first place, you seduced me to win a bet with Alex Krycek, the man who killed my sister."

"Yes. So?" I ask. "That's wrong, okay, easily admitted. But I fell in love. The entire bet shifted."

"So that's why you left me naked on a bed?"

"I was going to come back. I was going to make it up to you. And let's not forget what happened to Alex Krycek."

"Did you kill him?" Scully asks suddenly.

"Sadly, no. Son of a bitch was trying to rape me, the gun went off, I threw a freak scene and shot his balls off. That's God's honest truth about that whole story. It was an accident, but I was glad he died," I confess. "But all right. Point one's moot. I might have started off trying to seduce you for bad reasons, but it turned into good, and it helped you finally do the deed with Mulder. Next?"

"You slept with Mulder after your original death."

"You weren't sleeping with him."

"The second seduction."

I shake my head. "Oh, give me a break. You're reaching."

"Then we'll come back to the reason I'm here. You killed Mulder. This is an unforgivable block to a normal relationship between us, besides your numerous bizarre personality flaws. Convince me that it's not true and maybe--"

Oh, God. Her look changes from triumphant to vulnerable in a second. I can't figure it out-- is she playing a game (I would be) or is she honest? I feel sick to my stomach. Love gets you like that. Sucker love, the supposedly heaven sent thing. I look at her carefully.

"Maybe?" I ask. "Really?"

"I spent years running from Mulder and now I regret it."

"But I'm not Mulder," I say.

"Are you so certain of that?" she asks. "You sound like him. Well, a really fucking scary version of him, but it's not so distant. So it all comes down to this, Johnny. A clean slate, a place to start again. I forgive you for everything."

"And now what?"

"Give me the one answer I need," she says. "Did you kill Mulder?"

Her eyes are honest now. I have no doubt, and a lot of awe. If I want this, all I have to do is take it. The problem is if I want it, I have to lie to get it, and-- God, how easy it could be! One word! The world has never been this easy before.

I gaze at her. A long long time ago-- two minutes ago-- I would have boldfaced lied. But I can't. One of those flukish sparks of ethics and the desire to be worthy of the dirty, beautiful woman in front of me has paralyzed me.

One word. She could be mine. This long, dry spell would be over and I need her. I need her so much that I don't know what to do. If I tell the truth, the world comes to an end for us. And the lie would be so beautifully simple. Nobody knows for sure what I've done. If Scully believes, who would dare to question inside or out?

I look at her slowly and closely, memorizing every feature. I'll need it for the years ahead, the memory of her face, her voice, her smell, her touch. I take it all in, burning it deep within me.

"Johnny?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. The next word is fatal.

"Yes."

She gets off me, and I'm looking up at her again. "Good-bye, Johnny."

"Wait. We have a few things left to discuss," I say, grabbing the gun off the floor.

"We don't have anything left to say."

"Dana, don't make me kill you," I say desperately, uneasily getting to my feet. "I killed Mulder because I had to. I don't want to kill you. Please leave the FBI, transfer to Quantico, whatever, but stay out of my business. Go to Los Angeles and make your life a television show, I don't know! But drop the idea of a press conference. Forget all of it, or I will have to kill you, and I can't. I'll put a bullet in my own head first, and that means the end of this--" and I gesture around generally.

"You have a lot of nerve," she says softly. But I think maybe, just maybe, she's listening. "Give me back the gun."

"No," I say. "Dana--"

"I'm going," she says. "I'm-- I'm-- Johnny?"

I stare at her again, trying to get all I can into my memory. "Yes?"

"I hope you get as much joy in life as you've given," she says. And then she leaves and slams the door behind her.

I sink onto the floor, and then, after a long while, when the moon has turned the room into a pastiche of shadows, I get up and strip. I stare at myself in the full-length mirrors and the face I've worn for all these years. A stranger looks back at me, a woman with sad eyes and absolutely none of the sparkle I pride myself on. I stare at her for a while, and then slowly put on my favorite satin robe, and lay down in my bed alone, staring at the blue screen of my television, unable to think or move.

The door opens slowly a long time later. "Johnny?" Beth asks in her familiar, odd voice.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Mr. Colquitt called," she says. "I didn't think you were home so I waited-- Johnny?"

"I'm listening," I reply.

"He wants you to come to his office immediately," she says. "He sounded serious about it. Are you all right?"

"No," I say. "But I'm up. Did he say why?"

"No," Beth replies. "What happened?"

"Nothing important," I say, going back to the mirrors on the closet door. My face stares back at me hollowly as I open the door and decide which one of fifty suits I need to come face to face with the man who sold the world.

* * *

 

**CSM:**

"Good morning," I say as Johnny walks into the office. It obviously didn't go well with Agent Scully, but as I didn't expect her to come out of that confrontation alive, it had to have gone better than expected.

"Hello, Jack," she replies.

"How was your meeting with Agent Scully?"

I get the desired reaction. Johnny pales and freezes up. "She's no threat."

"I disagree," I say. "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing important," Johnny replies. "We talked about Mulder."

"Ah, yes, Agent Mulder. I have some questions for you about Agent Mulder as well, Johnny," I say, sitting back and lighting up a cigarette.

"You and the world," she says, sitting down. "What do you want to know?"

"Why did you kill him?"

She looks at me and shakes her head. "I didn't."

"Don't lie to me," I hiss at her. She narrows her eyes, and despite the blow she's just been dealt, I note Johnny is in fighting trim, so to speak. But this time she's not going to wriggle out of it. I told her not to kill Mulder and she did. I will not tolerate that sort of insubordination.

"The driver's implicated you," I say. "You're the most logical suspect."

"Logic," she says raggedly. "Oh, fuck you and your logic!"

It'll be nice, getting rid of Johnny. I've gotten what I need out of her, and her presence has been wearying. The ideas are there, and now it's just a matter of clean-up. The hysterics, the attitude, and the woman herself have just driven me out of my mind. But she's only a temporary inconvenience in the greater scheme of things.

"Ms. Valmont, you are going to take the fall for this. And for once it's even the right person taking the fall. I am going to enjoy it immensely. Did you really think one overpowering ego could change the world?"

She stands up. "For a while, yeah, I did," her voice says faintly. "Things don't change, Jack. We just shift slightly, but the elements are all the same. One great big endless cycle, and we're coming to the apex."

This is not the voice I was expecting from Johnny. She's not a fatalist by any stretch of the imagination, but the way she stands there, slightly slumped--

"It hurts at first, losing them," I say. "You numb it away the best you can."

"Jack?" Johnny asks in a wavering voice.

"Yes?" I reply crisply.

"Where's the body? Mulder's body?"

I laugh. I start laughing so hard I end up out of breath. Only now does she think of the body. She has been distracted.

"Well, Johanna, have you ever heard the story of the Fisher King? Or the Morte d'Arthur, for that matter?" I ask, sucking back another lungful of smoke. It's comforting now, one of the few comforts I cling to.

"I might have," she says. "King Arthur died. However, he's been spelled away to Avalon, and he'll come back when the people need him. I don't know so much about the Fisher King-- it's all about a sacrifice, so spring can come again. I forget. It's like that, though, isn't it?"

"Like your idiot nanny said, Rex quondam, Rex futurus," I reply. I admit, it had given me pause when the girl had said that, especially as Bethany knows nothing of the Project or about what happened to Mulder. I know she doesn't. I checked.

"Where did you take him?" Johnny asks. "Who took him, Jack?"

"Nobody here on Earth, Johanna," I reply, pointing toward the sky like a slack-jawed yokel seeing a UFO for the first time.

Johnny's face contorts wildly, trying to make all of this information make sense. It's not an easy task, but she finally does it and stares at me in absolute horror.

"They took him? Why?" she says. "Is he still dead?"

"He was dead as far as I know," I reply. "Maybe when he's needed again, he'll return."

Johnny snorts and sits back down. "That would be a trick. Those wily bastards. If I were them, I'd clone him, set him up to their purposes and bring him back like a Messiah. It would be brilliant. People would volunteer to become alien hatcheries," she mutters. Then she stares at me. "Is that what'll happen? Do you think?"

"I don't know," I reply. Her conjecture is simple and dreadful, and I suddenly feel ill. That could be the way they do it. After all of our recent blunders, they could know about the vaccine, and having Mulder the Prophet drop out of the sky, preaching unity with Purity? I stare back at Johnny. "We might have just assisted in our own demise."

She shakes her head. "I deserve this. I deserve for the world to crash around my ankles, but they don't."

I think she must have been drinking. "They?"

"The world. You know that we've fucked any chance they had to resist, you with your caution and me with my sheer selfishness. So what if I have to fight for a bite of food? At least we'd be alive," she says bitterly. "God, what I've got ahead of me."

"You don't have anything in front of you," I say, flustered. I brought her here to explain the conditions of her own death. But instead here we are, co-conspirators mourning something that existed only because of our own whims: the last fifty years. "You--"

The words catch in my jaw.

"Do you really think you can take me out now?" Johnny asks, rising again. "You idiot, all of the best people are loyal to me now. If you want, I can bring this organization down. I can make it all end right here and right now. I've let you maintain the idea that you still run things but let's get it clear, old man. I'm in charge."

Her eyes sparkle with anger. "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? But who cares if everyone down here is listening to you. Up there, where it counts, Johnny, they listen to me. They're the ones who'll take care of it for me."

"Well--"

Her voice fades away. Thank you, God, if you happen to exist. After all the blustering and the braggadocio, I have finally shut Johanna Valmont up. Those eyes of hers-- Agent Scully may have the most stunning set of eyes any man has ever seen, but Johnny comes a close second. Her eyes are much more interesting, too. Scully wavers between fear, vulnerability, and disgust. Johnny's eyes do the full spectrum of emotion in seconds.

Suddenly, I feel the strangest sensation in my chest. Something isn't working right. It hurts, and the dull ache in my left arm that I didn't feel until now rears up. I try to get a little breath, loosening my tie. Johnny looks at me, subdued, as I suddenly realize I'm having a heart attack.

Maybe I was right before, and Johnny Valmont has the greatest luck known to mankind. Because I know as I look at her that she understands what's happening to me, and she will let me die.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

He stares at me with glassy eyes, begging for mercy now. You're not so smug now, are you, Old Smokey? Thought you could scare me stupid-- and you damn well did, playing your trump card like that. But now who's scared, hmm?

"Johnny--"

"What's up?" I ask, recovering my scared and formerly lost voice. "You don't look so good."

"Call the paramedics."

"You mean you don't have your own personal doctor to keep your black heart going, you filthy son of a bitch?" I ask, leaning over the table. "You want me to bring outsiders here? Into your inner sanctum? Are you mad, Jack? Absolutely bonkers?"

"Johnny, please!" he gasps at me. "Do something."

I smile at him, the famous Valmont smile. It's a third generation asset, I've got an obligation to flash it around. "I think I should watch you die, old man. I think it's time for your era to end."

But I don't mean that. I know it would be the best thing to sit back and watch, sobbing and crying afterwards about how terrible it was, how he just died so fast I couldn't do anything. The only thing that I'll save here is evil. How can I save him and let Mulder die?

I grab his line and call 911. I start talking to the paramedics, trying to make sense of things. I call security and tell them to let the paramedics in when they come. And when I turn back to the old man who sold the world for a few shoddy promises, I notice he isn't breathing, that he's slumped down precariously. I drop the phone. No heartbeat.

I get him onto the floor, and try to remember how to do CPR. I shriek and cry for anyone around to come and help, but it's so late and nobody's here to help. I try, though. The old man doesn't deserve this, but it's not about him. I don't want him to live, but if he dies, it'll be proof of something, that I've got this eerie, frightening, divine luck and why? Why me of anyone?

He's dead when the paramedics arrive. They forcibly pull me off the body I tried to revive in a half-mad fit of pique, and I settle behind his desk, into his chair, as the old man is taken away in the night. I sit there alone and look at the office. It's simple, unlike mine. The world revolves around this single fixed point and it's so austere and cold. Jack had divorced life from his world to maintain his purpose and the chill is getting to me.

I try to think now, and fail miserably. The extraterrestrial bastards took Mulder's body. The old man was the main liaison, and now he's dead. What happens now? Do the green-blooded morphing guys run to my office and take orders from me? Is this prime time for Johnny Valmont? The questions should mean more, but instead I think that Danny sat up alone and only Beth saw that. I think that I've lost so much more than I've gained--

Yeah, right. What have I lost? Beth got it on the camcorder. And for every time the kid sits up, I miss six hours of drooling and screaming and snot. Oh, that's just terrible.

And what else? I killed Mulder in cold blood. Good! God damn it, I hated him. So it messed up Scully some more, I guess it was just my turn to do it. If Fate or God or Chance were so fond of her, why don't miracles ever happen to her? Because I've just seen a miracle and it was meant for me. I was going to be chop suey, and what happens? Smokey kicks the bucket. So not only do I get saved from a fate worse than death or watching endless reruns of Speed Racer, I am now in charge.

I start to laugh. I've been a big sentimental dork in love, that's what I've been. Ever since I got a case of that ethical, staid, boring Scully woman, I've been off my game. No wonder Alex got mad at me.

"Alex! Alex!" I call out. Maybe he's listening. Weirder things have and do happen in this world. "Guess what! You were right!"

He was so right. It all makes sense now. If I had just kept to the parameters of the original bet, and not let that repressed bitch get under my skin-- well, who knows what would have happened then? I don't think it could have worked out much better than it has, but still. I think I'm so lonely right now I could die, but it's never been a better night. Talk about cognitive dissidence.

And what happens next but one of the morphing aliens shows up?

"Hey there," I say with a smile. One of my old-fashioned bad ideas has sneaked into my head. I wonder how much morphing they can do in the important areas? That would be something to test, let me tell you--

"I have been sent to talk to you."

"Good! You know I'm in charge here, right? I'm the in-charge person, the man you see about the horse," I say. It's late. I've been up far too late tonight. I'm not making any sense at all. I'm lonely and exultant all at the same time.

"Yes. I've been told to tell you that they approve."

"Oh, cool," I say. "My name's Johnny Valmont. Do you have a name?"

He looks confused and shakes his head. "We have much to discuss."

"Tomorrow," I say. "I have been up for twenty-two hours. I have an ungodly headache. I promise, we will do all the little rights and rituals of changing leaders. I expect our collaboration will work out just fine. But right now, I'm exhausted. Come back tomorrow, say, two or three in the afternoon?"

"That's acceptable," he says. I smile at him brightly. See what a little charm will do? I knew I still had it. And tomorrow I should see about bringing that adorable creature, Brent from risk analysis, home for dinner and a good fuck. Yeah, that sounds right. It's time to celebrate my new position as person in charge. Dammit, I need a good job title.

I think about this as I stumble out towards my car. Queen of the Universe sounds good but that's a bit presumptive. The Consortium doesn't have an official name, so President of or CEO of sounds really silly. I have time to think about this. I feel a little light-headed. My God, I've really done this. All that plotting and screwing and crying and working and I'm sitting in my car in charge.

In charge.

My head hurts again, and if I don't think of Scully as a human being, just that damned bitch that messed up my game, I can manage to laugh. Who wouldn't feel good, with the world at her feet? I feel absolutely wonderful. I don't need her. I never did.

I'm in charge.

Alex, I think suddenly, would be proud. He'd be pissed that I beat him out for the position, but oh, well. I did beat him out at his own game. He'd have to acknowledge that. I miss him. I don't like this being alone at the top. I need someone else.

It would be wonderful now, to have him sitting in the car beside me right now, those eyes of his glittering like the pretty boy he is, the fire in his veins threatening to move us into the backseat so we could have a real celebration-- it would rock beyond belief to share it with him. I couldn't ever have this moment with anyone else. Scully might be the woman in my dreams, but dreams aren't real. Even dead, Krycek can seem as solid as reality. Scully was always little more than a silly little gossamer desire.

It all makes sense now. I start the car, feeling the adrenaline flood my system. Everything makes sense and it dilutes down to something so simple.

I win.

What sort of world do I want? Because it's mine. Purity, morphers, suspicious people-- screw 'em. I'm the one who's blessed. I always get what I want, if I really, really want it. If I don't want the human race to get wiped out, well, it won't be. Because I'm the winner.

The world seems to blur by as I drive home on the darkened streets of New York, though this city never really sleeps. Still, the quiet is refreshing, and I know very soon the hum of life will start again. It always does, in a circadian rhythm, an inevitable rhythm. And if I want, I can choose the rhythm.

The world's my playground. How incredible. How unusual. Well, not particularly unusual, but still, I'm extremely delighted to be in this new position of power even with all the problems that it entails.

My apartment is dark when I finally reach it, but the sky is tinted with the cool steel-grey light of dawn. It lights the room in colorless tones. I shiver at the lack of color or warmth, but after a moment, I wander out of the living room and into my bedroom. The same thoughts keep cycling over and over in my head, like drumbeats that won't stop. I try to stop thinking them, but they call out triumphantly.

I win. I win. I win. Staring into the mirror at myself, I manage to stop the endless self-congratulation and think of something much less pleasant but much truer, something that slows everything down to the speed of reality. It's very simple, too, so simple I never would think it would matter so much. I'm going to be terribly lonely at the top. Colquitt was right-- you have to sacrifice things. And I've broken all the rules, but this one appears to be immutable. So all I can think at the woman in the mirror with her dark eye circles is this.

I miss Alex.

 


End file.
